My Heart is Like Paper, Yours is Like a Flame
by OnceUponASomeday
Summary: How Rayna and Deacon's first kiss went down: the Samantha Beeswax version.
1. Chapter 1

**This was intended to be a one-shot but is now going to be two chapters, so an extended one-shot... a two-shot, if you will. **

**I wanted to play about with the idea of Rayna and Deacon's first kiss happening in his car as they mentioned in 5x07, and some of what leads up to it. It's at odds with the way I've written it in Forged in the Fire so was a bit strange to write a different version - an AU of an AU, in a way. I could never get tired of imagining all the ways Rayna and Deacon's first kiss could have gone though, so it's fun to play about with. Second chapter is almost done and will be posted in a few days.**

**Also I realise every time I write Deacon and Vince, they're on their couch in dirty socks burping and drinking beer. It's just where I picture them being in their natural habitat, but I really should find somewhere new for them to hang out and ruminate on life.**

**Also worth noting - my research tells me Tootsies, and all of Broadway in fact, was not at all what it is today and based on 90s-era Nashville, it seems like a legitimate and dive-y enough option for Rayna and Deacon's first gig. **

**This story is at the request of my sweet friend B - I hope it makes you feel better!**

**Additional note - thank you to the person who pointed out Tootsies is of course not in East Nashville! I'd written their first gig as somewhere else originally and forgot to change that bit when I changed it to Tootsies - oops. So thank you! **

It didn't start with the party. Fuck knows, it didn't end with it either.

Maybe it was ironic, the most extraordinary moment happening in the ordinary parking lot of a derelict Wendy's behind Stewart Osborne's parents' house. The night of the party was the culmination of all the longing and all the denial of the longing and all the times, the many times, Deacon had caught himself staring at Rayna's lips and willing himself not to kiss her and fuck it all up.

They were softer than he'd tried not to imagine, he discovered that night, when he finally did get to kiss her in the front seat of his truck while spring rain pattered staccato on the roof.

But it didn't start with the party.

#

"You can't go out wearin' that, man."

"The hell's wrong with it? This is my favourite shirt."

"Deac, it's got more holes in it than my Great-Grandpa's catheter. Samantha ain't gonna want to bang you with that on."

Deacon, ignoring the outfit critique, pulled two ice cold beers from the prehistoric refrigerator. "You of all people givin' me fashion advice is real cute, Vince. I ain't ever seen you wear somethin' that don't have ketchup down the front."

"I'm wearin' new boxers today, for your information." Vince wiggled his hips and took one of the beers.

"Ten bucks says they'll be covered in spilt booze before the end of the night." Deacon peeled back the ring-pull with a satisfying hiss. "Anyway, Samantha ain't comin' tonight."

"Why not?"

"I dunno, 'cause I didn't ask her?"

Vince flipped on the old radio, twiddling the dial past bouts of static. "Are you _not_ wantin' to get laid tonight?"

"I just don't feel like hangin' out with her right now. Whatever."

He found a station playing some jaunty bluegrass, and pulled a face, skipping past it. "Girlfriend gettin' you down?"

"She ain't my girlfriend, I hardly know her."

"Does _she_ know that? She sure as fuck hangs around you a lot for someone who ain't your girl."

Deacon winced and sat down on one of the kitchen barstools. "I've sort of avoided it every time she's brought it up," he admitted. "I just ain't interested in bein' tied to anyone, Vinny. You'd know - you ain't exactly boyfriend material either."

"I take offense at that - I gave that chick from the diner flowers last month."

"You stole her a dandelion."

"What's your point?"

"It was from her own yard."

"Now that is where you're goin' wrong, Deac - that shit got me laid for a solid week. The ladies don't take much impressin'."

Deacon laughed. "I take it back, you're a catch. Look, I just ain't in the place for a girlfriend. I barely got enough time for my music as it is, I don't need someone callin' me twenty times a day _just to say hi._"

"That's love, buddy." Vince finally settled on a decent station, turning up the George Strait record and giving Deacon a light slap on the back of the head.

"I don't think love's even a real thing." There was a black and white picture of an old couple sitting outside a French cafe on the wall in the kitchen, one that had been there when they'd moved in six months earlier. It had been knocked off during a party they'd had shortly afterwards, and they'd never bothered to hang it back properly. The old man stared back at Deacon from an accusing angle. "I ain't never seen it, anyway."

"Sure it's real. You think people write all those songs about somethin' that don't even exist?"

"All those songs are about broken fuckin' hearts."

"Well exactly - a heart can't be broken if it don't feel love, can it?"

Deacon thought for a moment, watching the old man, sure he was about to point a finger out of the painting at any moment. "I guess not."

"So you gonna break up with her?"

"Samantha? Nah. She's alright, she's kind of cool to hang out with sometimes." He looked at Vince pointedly. "Sometimes."

"But not tonight."

"Not tonight."

Vince nodded. "That rack sure don't hurt," he said after a minute.

"Fuck off, Vinny."

#

It was a Tuesday evening and the roads were quiet, the drive to The Bluebird only taking them fifteen minutes or so. A guy called Watty White had invited them a couple of weeks earlier when he'd come up to Deacon after a gig he and Beverly had played. Deacon had only learned later that Watty White was the king of Nashville, by all accounts, and he'd hastily fished the simple business card out of his jeans pocket, thankful he hardly ever remembered to wash them, and had called to say he'd be there.

Beverly, to Deacon's secret relief, was too busy to make it, hanging around with another new asshole boyfriend she'd moved quickly in with across town. He knew it was for the best; she was in one of her moods lately, and she'd snap out of it just like she always did, but it had been taking a toll on Deacon and he needed a little space, a little less Beverly and a little more getting to know his still-new town on his own terms.

Watty was sitting at the far side of the tiny venue when they walked in - late, thanks to their second beers - and he waved over at them, beckoning them to two empty seats at his table. It was open mic night, and a guy with red boots and the biggest hat Deacon had ever seen was up on the small stage, strumming a guitar and singing about his broken heart, much to Vince's amusement.

"_That _dude believes in love," he whispered. "If it's good enough for him…"

"You got here just in time," Watty told them between songs, signalling their server to bring a round of drinks. "There's a girl I'm keen for you to hear."

Hat Guy played one more song, different tune, same tattered heart, and a woman with long black hair and a ukulele took her turn after him. She was good, Deacon thought, but he was unsure if she was the girl Watty was referring to, and why exactly. He tried to think of something smart to say, but thankfully Watty didn't ask.

When she finished her short set, he excused himself to go to the bathroom, weaving through the tables as quiet chatter started up among the patrons. Through the closed door, he could hear the muffled voice of the host introducing the next act and scattered applause in response, and as he dried his hands on the towel hanging by the sink, a female voice thanking the audience for their welcome.

He closed the door carefully and made his way back into the main room, and as he rounded the partition wall, he saw her.

Red hair, bouncy curls past her shoulders, cowboy boots and a jean skirt. She wriggled onto the stool as the host adjusted the mic for her and laughed self-deprecatingly.

"I never have been able to get up onto one of these things gracefully," she said in a honeyed Southern drawl, and Deacon felt his chest constrict.

He realised he'd forgotten to move, and he shook himself, drifting back in the direction of his table without taking his eyes from the girl.

"I'm a little nervous," she continued, and chewed her bottom lip. "Just between you and me, I've never done this before…" She smiled, and it spread across her whole face. Deacon bumped into someone's chair and mumbled an apology, correcting course and finding his seat.

_God_ she was pretty, the kind of pretty you want to look at for your whole life. She adjusted the mic a little more and shifted on the stool, crossing long, tanned legs and clearing her throat.

"I'm Rayna," she said, "Rayna Jaymes. And this is a song I wrote last year, about my mama."

Rayna Jaymes. He said it over in his mind and decided it suited her; she smiled shyly at the room as her guitar player opened the song, and he thought that suited her too. She had faint dimples, a friendly face, but she scared the living crap out of him and he wasn't at all sure why.

She took a deep breath and tugged the sleeve of her blouse down, her foot tapping along to the first notes while she waited for her cue, and then she opened her mouth and began to sing, and her whole posture changed. Deacon watched, captivated, as her nerves disappeared and she filled the room with her melody, her voice surprising him, as musky as it was sweet. She sang like her life depended on it, long fingers clutching the mic, and he took in every word, her lyrics sinking into his skin.

And then it happened: she looked at him. She didn't just glance, a quick scan of a nameless face in a crowd; her eyes stopped on him, unmistakably him, and she didn't look away. Deacon felt like he stopped breathing, so intently focused on her as he was. He didn't see Vince turn to look at him quizzically, or Watty raise an eyebrow. All he saw was her, Rayna Jaymes, and for the rest of her song it felt as though she was singing only to him.

She broke eye contact when the last chorus ended, and her breathy laugh, the slight flush in her cheeks as she looked down at her lap, could have been for him or could have been for the crowd as they applauded her. They were enthusiastic, generous, and she grinned; Deacon saw her look over at Watty in disbelief.

"Well my goodness," she said, "y'all are so kind. Thank you!"

"Chick is _hot_," Vince said, quietly enough that Watty couldn't hear.

"We just have one more for you," Rayna Jaymes continued, and launched into a more upbeat song, country as they came, the kind of catchy that made itself at home in your head and stuck around.

She was enjoying herself, that much was evident, and Deacon only realised he was smiling when his jaw ached from it. She threw him flirty, playful looks while she sang, but they were curious, lingering on him too long, and he gripped the edge of his chair with sweaty fingers. When she finished singing he clapped so earnestly his palms stung, and he had to stop himself jumping to his feet to give her a standing ovation all of his own. She left the stage with a little wave, and his eyes followed her as she made her way to one of the tables tucked into the far corner and hugged a couple of its occupants before she sat down to join them.

"What did you think?" Watty asked, twisting in his chair to face Deacon as the next guy got up.

He didn't know how to even begin to verbalise what he thought, so he gave a huff of air that could have meant anything, and opened and closed his mouth a couple of times.

"That means he thought she was great," Vince translated, and Watty laughed.

"Yeah," Deacon said, recovering himself before Vince said anything else and got them both kicked out, "I thought she was _really_ great. Really somethin'."

"She's got potential, hasn't she?" Watty looked proud as hell, but he also looked like the wheels in his head were turning and turning quickly. Deacon figured he was probably the kind of guy who looked like that a lot - a thinker, someone who saw connections and opportunities where others missed them.

"I'll say. She's not like anyone else I've seen playin' around town." Deacon ran his hand over the scruff on his chin. She'd thrown him for a loop, and he'd be damned if he knew why he couldn't stop looking over at her table.

The next act launched into a song before he could say anything else, but he caught the satisfied, almost scheming look on Watty's face and guessed he was pleased with his feedback. He turned his attention back to the stage and Deacon let out a sigh of relief.

The short set passed by in a blur; he couldn't take his eyes off Rayna, even the little of her he could see in the dark, her back to him. He didn't think about what he was doing when he reached into his jacket pocket for a pen and tugged the napkin out from under the beer Watty had ordered for him. He wrote around the wet circle it left behind, heady lyrics he heard without thinking, his mind full of her.

It turned out the guy was the last performer of the night, and Deacon pocketed the napkin quickly when the host closed out the show. He saw Rayna clapping with enthusiasm, and he started to worry profusely - people were packing up their jackets and bags and he felt a sudden blinding fear that she would walk out of the door and into the night and he'd never see her again.

He turned to look out into the parking lot, not really knowing what he was looking for - an excuse to catch up to her if she left, maybe, but he wasn't at all sure what his intentions were anyway. It was raining; big, plump drops bounced off the cars in the lot and blurred the world beyond the glass, like it had disappeared.

"Dude," Vince murmured, seeing his panic face, "you good?"

"Huh? Yeah, yeah I'm fine."

"Not for much longer."

"What?"

Vince nodded his head forwards. "She's comin' over. The redhead."

He was right. Deacon followed his line of sight to see her a couple of tables away, beaming at Watty and heading unmistakably in their direction.

_Thank God_, was his first thought. _Oh shit_ was his second. He had about two breaths to try to pull himself together and he used them to slug his remaining beer, before she was hugging Watty warmly and smiling at his congratulations and telling him in a breathless voice how good it felt to play her music for an audience, to be sat right where she'd watched so many other people.

Suddenly having two arms felt like a great inconvenience to Deacon, and he didn't quite know what to do with them. He tried folding them across his chest but it felt all wrong, so he dangled them down by his sides, but they were too long and too unruly and too stiff if he tried to keep them still. Jamming them in his pockets made him look like he should be chewing straw but at least they were out of his way, and he could feel Vince staring at him as he tried his best to look casual.

"There's someone I want you to meet," he heard Watty tell Rayna, and he almost bolted out of the room. She turned towards him and in an instant everything went quiet. He somehow found himself holding out his hand and taking hers in it. "This is Deacon Claybourne," Watty said. "He's a guitar player who moved out here to Nashville a few months ago."

"Hi," Rayna said, a sweet, self-conscious smile on her lips, and God her hand was soft and so delicate and he definitely held onto it longer than he should have done but he really didn't want to let it go.

"Hi," he replied, a beat too late, and when she pulled her hand back eventually they both dipped their heads.

Watty chuckled. "And this is Vince - I'm sorry, I don't know your surname."

"Jameson. Like the whiskey. I come from a long line of Irish drunks," Vince said, giving Rayna a wave in greeting. "Pleasure to meet you."

She laughed, and it was a huskier sound than Deacon would have expected, a dulcet rumble that made him want to find something witty to say so he could hear it again.

"I've known Rayna since she was a little girl," Watty said. "Always knew she'd be up here one day."

"Gosh Watty, it was so exciting," she gushed, her eyes sparkling. "I just want to do it all over again."

"And you will, sweetheart. No question there."

"You were incredible," Deacon told her, and cursed himself for how dumb he sounded. He cleared his throat. "I mean," he gestured at the now-empty stage, "I thought you really belonged up there."

"You did?" she asked, in genuine question, and he nodded eagerly, taking in every feature of her face as he watched it light up.

"I'm glad you agree," Watty said, "because I thought it would be interesting to have the two of you meet." He gave them both a knowing smile that made Deacon feel reassured and absolutely terrified in one fell swoop, and put his hand on Rayna's shoulder. "Rayna's been dabbling in learning guitar for a while," - Deacon saw her grimace - "and she's getting there, but she could get there a whole lot faster with some help."

"Like, guitar lessons?" Deacon asked, his stomach flooding with nerves.

"Actually," Watty said, laying his proverbial Ace on the table, "I was thinking more like you playing, and her singing."

#

Their first gig together was at a rundown bar two weeks later. He'd been learning her modest collection of songs, and they'd written several more in that time, together, with startling ease. Deacon had been writing songs for a few years, and Rayna, at the tender age of sixteen - so he'd learned to his surprise later that night at The Bluebird - had notebook after notebook of lyrics, melancholic, inquisitive, honest lyrics that needed to be put to music to bloom into songs.

He'd been helping her create melodies for them, coaxing her to express how they sounded in her head, the way they made her feel. She'd opened herself to him quickly, and had told him how much she'd startled herself in doing so, that she'd never shown her songs to anyone - they were the inside of her head, her heart. There hadn't been a moment of the past two weeks that he hadn't marvelled at the revelation that she trusted him with something he knew firsthand to be so deeply personal.

"I just can't believe we get to sing these up on _stage_," she gushed, the night before the gig, far too late for her to still be sitting on Deacon's couch, but he didn't want her to leave, and she didn't seem to want to either.

"It's more songs than at The Bluebird," he said, picking a broken potato chip out of the bowl wedged between them. "Do you feel ready?"

She looked at him thoughtfully, watching him pop the chip in his mouth. "With you? Yeah. Yeah I do."

He grinned at her. "I can't wait, Rayna. These songs… there's some gold here. You're really onto somethin'."

"_I'm_ onto somethin'? The songs we've written _together_ are magic, Deacon. I can't believe how easy it is with you, it's like I don't even have to think, they just pour out." She looked away, and spoke a little quieter. "Those songs are my favourites."

He watched her pluck at the thread of a tattered cushion, and his chest thumped against every conscious will in his body. Two weeks of knowing her and he was a goner. If he was honest, it hadn't taken two weeks. It hadn't even taken two minutes.

He couldn't admit it, of course, and he felt guilty as hell for feeling it, but with every fibre of his being he knew already that he was in love with her. He also knew he was in big trouble. She was sixteen, he was a couple of months away from being out of his teen years altogether, and damn if he didn't feel a hell of a lot older, the pressures of his life necessitating that his adolescence be over quickly. Rayna, though she too was unquestionably an older soul than her age would suggest, was innocent, under his tutelage, and when she looked at him it was with big, wide eyes. There was no way he was going to take advantage of her, and no way he was going to screw up Watty's faith in him.

The thing between them though, whatever it was, was bigger than them. It didn't matter how much Deacon tried to push it down, she was all he could think about, and when he was around her all the weight and the worry he carried around - had always carried around - vanished, no room for anything but her. It should have scared him, how intense and immediate their connection was - if he believed in past lives, and hell maybe he did, he'd surely have thought it must have been cemented in one, to feel so instinctively familiar. All he did know was that it was anything but scary, a comfort that filled him up, parts of him that were so empty he'd never even known they could feel any other way.

He didn't know too much about Rayna, and he sure as hell hadn't regaled her with tales of his sorry life, but he knew beyond doubt that they were the same: lost, searching for something to hold on to, trying to make some fragmented sense of life. She'd lost her mother, and music was her solace, the thing she'd turned to when nothing else was there. It was a remedy he knew only too well.

"It's a lot of fun writin' with you," he told her, and she nodded. _Fun_ didn't come close to covering it, but he didn't dare say more than that.

"It sure is."

Rayna dipped her hand into the bowl to fish for a potato chip at the same moment he did, and for a brief second their fingers brushed against each other's. Deacon felt heat shoot through him and looked up at her, pulling his hand back the instant he saw the same stunned look on her face. "Sorry," he muttered.

He glanced at her at she nibbled the edge of the chip she retrieved, and he could have sworn her cheeks were a little pinker than they'd been before.

/#

Tootsies Orchid Lounge was at the top end of Lower Broad, a run-down bar with a solid reputation for good quality live music.

Rayna bounded towards Deacon when she saw him waiting for her by the back alleyway entrance, and he pushed himself up off the wall he was leaning against and grinned at her. Their first gig together - it felt big, far more so than any of the gigs he'd done solo or with Beverly and Vince. Him and Rayna, together, singing the music they'd been rehearsing in private… he was nervous, to say the least.

"You ready to do this?" she asked, taking a deep breath.

"With you?" he replied, echoing her own words back to her. "Yeah, yeah I am."

It was an early slot, the sky freshly dark outside and the bar sparse with drinkers, some classic country records playing when they walked in. It might as well have been a stadium, the way it felt to walk through the dark, graffiti-riddled room and up onto the stage beside her, to swell with pride as she greeted the handful of people paying any attention, to meet her eyes when she turned to him as his fingers found the strings and began to play.

It was over in a blink, seven songs and a cover of an old John Conlee song Rayna loved, applause from the audience and a handful of crumpled dollar bills in the tip jar. They used them to get cheeseburgers and corndogs from a Sonic drive-thru afterwards, their celebration of a night neither of them would ever forget.

"I can't believe we really just did that," Rayna said, tossing her empty wrapper onto his dashboard. "I feel like I'm flying, Deacon."

The joy on her face made him feel like he might burst into pieces, and he thought about how he'd seen them, the people drinking and chatting, propping up the bar, how one by one they'd paused their conversations, started to listen, really listen, how they'd lifted their eyes to watch her. To watch them.

When she turned to him from the passenger seat of his truck, lowered her chin and gave him a look that said she double-dared him, he felt drunk on her.

"I wanna go run through a waterfall," she whispered.

And that was how he found himself soaking wet at a quarter past midnight in the Tennessee countryside, Rayna Jaymes beside him in her underwear, hair about her face in every direction.

"I wanna do it again, Deacon," she told him, spinning around to face him, her eyes brilliant, as wild a thing as there ever was. "I wanna sing every night. Up there, like that. With you. It feels like the truest thing thing I've ever known."

"Three chords and the truth," he said, the humid breeze chivvying beads of water down his skin. "They say that's all you need. I think they might just be right, Ray."

She considered him for a moment, eyes on his face, lips parted, and for just one stolen second in time he let his breath catch at how utterly beautiful she was. "Ray," she repeated, and then she was gone, slipping away from him towards the edge of the bank.

"Where you goin'?" he called. It was so much darker out in the country, no artificial light for miles, but the night was clear and the moon almost full; he could see the curved outline of her as though through opaque glass, her skin silver as she moved.

She gave him a wicked look over her shoulder, and before he could move, she reached up and flicked off her bra, shed herself of her panties, and dived into the water.

"Rayna!" he gasped, squinting to see where she was, and when she surfaced her laughter bounced around the clearing.

"Come on in!"

Deacon stood on the edge of the bank, paralysed with surprise, until she splashed him and ducked back under.

"Fuck it," he said under his breath, and shucked off his boxers. High on adrenaline from the gig and from Rayna, he laughed too, took a few steps backwards to get a good run-up, and threw himself in next to her. God help him, he'd have followed her anywhere.

She shrieked in delight and he felt more fucking free than he ever had in his life, the water cooling his skin, bubbles in places he'd never felt bubbles before.

"First one to the waterfall gets those leftover fries in your truck," she said, and he grinned so hard as he swam that he could swear he swallowed half the pond.

#

It was a couple of nights later when Vince came home from a shift at one of his shitty jobs and found Deacon at the kitchen counter, attempting to make dinner with minimal effort. "I heard some stuff today," he said, closing the door behind him and surveying Deacon's culinary skills, "about Rayna. About her Daddy, to be exact."

"About her Daddy?"

He pulled off his boots and tossed them on the floor. "Mmhmm. You know that big glass skyscraper thing they're buildin' downtown? He owns it. The whole thing."

"So?" Deacon said, going back to the can of beans he was about to devour without bothering to heat them and peeling back the jagged lid. "Guess he's in property or somethin', what's that got to do with anythin'?"

"He's also Chair of the Metro City Council, some bigwigs who make a tonne of fancy decisions and whatever. And then there's that big ass investment firm over on Demonbreun, that's his too - he owns half this town, Deac. They're sayin' he's gonna be the next Mayor." Vince gave a whistle. "Name's Lamar Wyatt. Sounds scary huh?" He fixed Deacon with a stare. "Turns out your cute country-girl crush comes from a Belle Meade millionaire family. A damn powerful one."

"What does it matter if she does? And I ain't got a crush on her," Deacon huffed, shoving a spoon in his can. It sounded like bullshit even to his own ears.

"You wanna wish you don't, 'cause Lamar Wyatt definitely has a cabinet of shotguns, and I'll bet you every cent I don't have that he sharpens them at night just waitin' to scare away horny rascals like you from gettin' anywhere near his daughter."

"Well it ain't a problem, is it? Rayna's my friend, I'm just writin' with her, that's all. Just helpin' her out."

"Uh huh," Vince said, gleeful, "just helpin' her out." He snagged a bean that plopped onto the counter. "Of her clothes."

Deacon jabbed his spoon in Vince's direction sternly. "I ain't doin' nothin' of the sort."

"Oh yeah? So you _weren't_ skinny dippin' with her the other night? Just the two of you, nice little romantic moonlight swim, ass-middle of nowhere?"

"It wasn't like that. She's sixteen, for one thing. And for another thing…" Deacon flailed the spoon about, lost for what, exactly, another thing could be. "I just ain't gonna do that to her, man. Jesus, I'm not a total asshole."

"Sure." Vince nodded slowly. "It would be such an asshole move for you to fall for a seriously hot chick you've been all moony over ever since you met her. What a jerk you'd be." He spun around on his stool and came to rest on his elbows, fingers laced under his chin. "But you're just writin' songs together, nice and simple, so it's nothin' to be worryin' your pretty little head about, is it?" He peered at Deacon, one eyebrow raised. "But then ain't that just how all the legendary country music love stories started out, Deac? Just writin' songs together?"

#

It rattled Deacon, as much as he tried to shake it off. Lamar Wyatt. For some reason the name of the guy echoed around his head, striking little frissons of apprehension, the towering building catching his eye every time he drove down Broadway.

What made him nervous though was the thought of Rayna coming from that kind of a family, from money, from power, and the status that came along with it. He couldn't reconcile it with the understated girl who saw him from across the park and quickened her step towards him, who turned up at his house with a bag of warm doughnuts and a beat-up guitar awkwardly wedged under her arm. She had manners, impeccable manners, and her boots were always polished, her hair always impossibly shiny, but it just didn't fit.

When he wasn't around her, he thought of how she must see him. He thought of where _he_ came from: the worn couch in the front room of the house he grew up in, the chips in the kitchenware, wilted wildflowers in the yard that had been infiltrated with weeds no one had bothered to get rid of. He thought of his worn mother, the chips in her teeth from where she'd hit the kitchen counter face down, the wilted greys that had appeared prematurely and drained her previously dark hair of its spirit.

His own house in Nashville, the one with the just-about affordable rent he and Vince had found, left much to be desired itself. There were always dishes in the sink, the place smelled of sweaty feet thanks to Vince's habit of tossing his socks everywhere. The blinds were hung crookedly at the windows so they always looked a little drunk, and there was never fresh milk in the refrigerator - they were incapable of remembering to buy it, no matter how much coffee they drank.

The first time Deacon had met up with Rayna after the night at The Bluebird they'd gone to a coffee shop, but it was hard to concentrate on writing music when surrounded by people and so he'd suggested they ditch and go carry on at his place. Rayna had agreed happily and he'd been a little nervous even before learning about her intimidating heritage that she might think it was a dump and turn right around. She didn't; she dropped into one of his lawn chairs with a smile and an hour later they'd written their first song. There was something about her demeanor when she was there, and Deacon would be damned if he could quite understand it, but she had a quiet contentment about her when she was squished in the middle of his sofa cushions with her legs crossed, the faucet dripping loudly into the sink. She'd never mentioned her house, and she certainly had never asked him round - come to think of it she hadn't told him what part of town she was from even, or spoken of her family much at all, and he wasn't one to push.

He considered what she must think of his accent, how thick it sounded next to her gentle, refined cadence, his permanently calloused fingers with the nails bitten down, the jeans he wore most days that should certainly have given up by now. He wondered if she knew about fancy silverware, which fork was the right one for an appetiser that wasn't a mozzarella stick, how to properly pronounce _chaise longue_.

And then she would turn up on his doorstep, and he wouldn't think at all. There was no self-conscious rhetoric in his head, no doubting himself, what he said, how he sat, how cheap the coffee was that he offered her. He focused on nothing but her, in front of him, the presence of her that stayed with him long after she left.

#

"I just can't get this line, I don't know what it is but it doesn't sound right, you know?"

Rayna's favourite spot to write in, specifically, was in the middle of Deacon's floor, usually on her belly with her feet bare, legs crossed at the ankle and swaying in the air. She chewed all of his pens, and she always brought snacks, and in no time at all he couldn't remember anything he'd loved to do as much as spend time with her.

"Try it with this last part first," he said, peering down at what she'd written and beckoning to borrow her pen. "You can sort of lead into it that way."

She wriggled around to read his re-working and Deacon found himself lying side by side next to her. She nodded thoughtfully and started to sing his version of the line, her voice soft and low, a pretty murmur. He rested his chin on his hand and listened to her, and when she caught his eye she gifted him one of the smiles he'd come to crave in moments when he wasn't around her, the ones that made him feel like the sun had broken through every window in the house at the same moment and wrapped him up. He'd also come to realise that she didn't smile quite like that at anyone else, but he didn't let himself dwell on it.

There were a lot of things he had to stop himself thinking about when it came to Rayna.

"I love it," she mused, "that works much better." She kept her eyes on him and seemed to hesitate for a moment. "I don't know how I ever did this without you, Deacon. I can't imagine it now."

He felt his cheeks get warm and had to drop his eyes to focus far too hard on a knot in the scuffed floorboards. "You did great without me, Rayna." He took a deep breath. "I'm sure glad to be doin' this with you now though. We make a good team, huh?"

She bumped his shoulder with hers. "That we do."

"I got a hell of a lot to thank Watty White for. I don't know why he picked me out of all the guitar slingers in this town to play for you."

"_With_ me," she corrected him, "not _for_ me. And he picked you 'cause you're the best."

"I ain't the best, hell, I ain't even close."

She reached for a salty peanut in a bowl on the floor and popped it into her mouth, crunching it for effect. "He told me of all the people he's found lately, you're the one with the most potential. I'd take that - Watty doesn't say things he doesn't mean. And I agree with him, by the way. I think you're somethin' really special, Deacon."

Deacon was not good at taking compliments, but from her… He had no idea how to respond, so he cleared his throat and tried to look like he wasn't scrambling to think of something to say that didn't make him sound lame, until she laughed.

"What?" he asked, looking up at her.

"You're cute when you're embarrassed."

"I ain't embarrassed," he chuckled, and she let out a tiny snort. He echoed her shoulder nudge a little too vigorously and she toppled off balance and landed on her side, her laughter peeling through the room. She rolled onto her back in surrender and he scooted towards her, laughing with her and unthinkingly grasping her hip, trying to ask her through his mirth if she was okay.

She nodded and reached up to push her hair out of her face, and as their laughter died down the room seemed to get really quiet. Deacon, suddenly hyper-aware that he was touching her bare skin where her shirt had ridden up, just enough to expose a few inches of her stomach, felt his heart thud in his chest and his palm get sweaty. She stared up at him steadily and against every voice in his head that told him not to, he dropped his eyes to her lips, pursed and plump and right there, a few inches away.

The knock at the door couldn't have been better and more terribly timed, and for a few seconds they froze, until a second impatient knock sounded out and Deacon jumped to attention.

"Coming," he called, while Rayna sat up, and when he glanced back at her he thought she seemed just as dazed as he felt.

"What in the world took you so long?" Samantha said when he opened the door to find her on the other side, huge purse slung over the crook of her arm, shirt so tight she was one wrong stretch away from exploding out of it.

"What are you doin' here?" he asked, and she clicked her tongue at him.

"Well nice to see you too, sugar." She grabbed his shirt collar and his stomach sank when she pulled his face towards her and planted a wet kiss on his lips.

He wasn't sure what to do other than hover limply in the doorway, but she didn't wait anyway; she breezed past him into the house and dumped her purse on the counter, stopping short when she saw Rayna.

"Oh," she said, not at all trying to hide her surprise, and Rayna stood quickly, smoothing her shirt. "Hello."

"Hi," Rayna said, plastering a benign smile on her face. She held out her hand and Samantha stared at it for a moment before she took it. "I'm Rayna, I'm a friend of Deacon's."

"Oh is that right?" Samantha replied, looking between the two of them. "Rayna, that's your name? Funny, I haven't heard him mention you. I'm Samantha, his girlfriend."

She said it pointedly and Deacon flinched; he shuffled towards the two girls and stood in front of the couch, acutely aware of Rayna's rumpled hair and bare legs. He scratched the back of his neck, feeling like he'd been caught red-handed though he wasn't entirely sure doing what, or which of them he felt he should apologise to. "Rayna and I been writin' some songs," he said, and motioned redundantly towards the guitar and notebook on the floor. It was a statement rather than a justification, but he thought he sounded a little wet anyway.

"Writin' some songs?" Samantha repeated. "Haven't you been at work?"

"Ah, I had the afternoon off, actually, so, yeah, writin' some songs."

She blinked false eyelashes at him. "You had the afternoon off and you didn't call me?"

Deacon, for his part, tried not to let it show on his face that he was thinking of all the times he hadn't called her when he'd had free time, and took a second too long to answer. As Samantha's eyes narrowed, he made the mistake of glancing at Rayna, who looked like she would rather be anywhere else. "We got a gig we gotta get ready for," he said, and Rayna lifted a very subtle eyebrow at him. They didn't have another gig lined up yet, but he figured it was only a matter of time so it wasn't a _lie_, entirely, just a premature truth.

Rayna was on the same page in half a second, and gave Samantha a nod, much to Deacon's relief, but Samantha was still unconvinced.

"Right," she said, fingers white where she was gripping her bony hips. Deacon guessed that meant she was not happy. "How long exactly have y'all been doin' this?" She swirled a hand around in the direction of their songwriting paraphernalia. "Why don't I know about you, Rayna?"

"Oh we haven't been doin' this long at all," Rayna told her, "only a few weeks, actually. Deacon's just helpin' me out as a favour to a family friend. I'm not exactly gifted when it comes to playin' guitar, let's say, so he agreed to step in for a few gigs to make me sound less terrible." She smiled politely at Deacon, platonic and even a little business-like, an entirely different kind of smile to those she gave him while they were alone. "I had a couple of free periods from school this afternoon, and gosh he's been real kind to make some time - I called him this morning in somethin' of a panic."

To Deacon's amazement, Samantha's clipped face relaxed, and he stared at Rayna, impressed. Her voice had taken on a more pronounced Southern lilt, her posture warm and reassuring, and he didn't even know quite how she'd done it, but it was as natural as he could imagine. She'd managed to diffuse the growing tension in a few words and Samantha gave a cooing sound and beamed at Deacon.

"Oh!" she said. "Well he _is_ great at guitar. I'm glad he could help you, sweetheart."

It was a little patronising but not at all in a mean way - Samantha just _was_ a little patronising, Deacon had come to see, but she meant no harm. She had the same tone with everyone, so at least it was genuine, but he cringed inside all the same. She'd taken Rayna's bait, judging her as a kid the instant she'd mentioned school and discounting her as a threat, and he knew Rayna had played that card to provoke exactly that reaction, but it irked him that Samantha was so quick to categorise someone. She didn't _see_ people, only their surfaces.

"Me too," Rayna said, and she tapped her wrist, though she wore no watch. "I really should be goin', actually, I have a study group to get to - I'm about as awful at Chemistry as I am a guitar. It was nice to meet you, Samantha!"

If Samantha was smarter, less into herself, she would have seen how Rayna gathered up her things too quickly and pulled on her boots without bothering to put the socks back on that were stuffed into them. She was instead too busy flicking her hair extensions over her shoulder and shooting Deacon a look that said she wanted to get her hands on him the instant Rayna disappeared.

Deacon barely noticed; he followed Rayna to the door and tried to slow her hurry, but she was already halfway out of it by the time he caught up with her.

"Hey, you don't have to go," he said, quietly enough that Samantha wouldn't hear, not because he cared that she would, but because he didn't want Rayna to feel awkward. Their afternoon together had been interrupted so abruptly that he felt upended, like everything had been pushed off balance.

"Study group," she said with forced cheer, and he knew there was no such thing. She whirled around just long enough to give him a jerky wave, and made a beeline for her car before he could say anything more.

He stood and watched her drive slightly erratically - as was her driving style, so he'd learned on the one occasion he'd gotten into her car - down the street until she was out of sight, feeling deflated. Samantha sidled up behind him and slid her arms around his waist, reaching straight for the buckle on his belt.

"Kid seems nice," she said, leaning around him to close the door and pulling the belt through the loops on his jeans.

"Hey," he said, grasping her hand and stilling it, "don't."

"Don't?" He turned to face her and was met with a sculpted eyebrow, skyhigh with incredulity. "Since when do you not want sex, Deacon?"

"I just got a lot to do," he said, brushing past her and opening the fridge.

He pulled a can of soda out and realised he should probably offer her one too, seeing as she didn't seem to be getting the hint and leaving. He held one out to her and she took it with a pout and sauntered over to the couch. She must have been torn between sulking and trying harder to tempt him, because she hitched her skirt up before she sat down so that maximum leg was on show, and sure, her legs were ten feet long, and that damn skirt was as tight as a balloon, but it was all so… obvious.

Deacon sighed and tried not to think of Rayna's far more subtle good looks, her modest jean shorts, the handful of freckles on her summer-kissed knees.

He sat down in the armchair next to the couch and Samantha pouted some more. "Come sit with _me_, babe," she said, and he did as she requested. She draped herself over him and he let her smear her lipstick on his cheek, but when she reached for his pants again he stood up quickly.

"I really ain't in the mood, Samantha."

That about did it. She got to her feet, hands flying to her hips. "Were you in the mood when Rayna was here?"

"What?"

"Who's the family friend you're doing the favour for, Deacon? Or was that all bullshit and you've spent the afternoon screwin' her?"

"Jesus, Samantha, no I fuckin' haven't."

"Really? Because you sure must have been workin' hard on all that _songwriting _to be so worn out."

He threw his hands up in the air, exasperated, and some kind of shrill noise came out of Samantha but he'd already stopped listening. She stomped towards the door and threw a few curse words and a few enraged scowls his way before she slammed it behind her.

Peace rang throughout the house and for a few blissful moments, Deacon bathed in it.

Girls. He would just never understand them.

#

"Samantha's pissed at me."

"Let me take one guess at why - I get it right and you gotta buy me a shot."

"Tequila or bourbon?"

Vince bounced on his barstool, a hand-rolled cigarette balanced precariously between his lips. The bar lighting was low, tinged green, and an intense game of pool was going on behind them, a short, tattooed woman beating her two male friends, much to their dismay.

"Tequila, and Rayna Jaymes."

"Two for two, buddy." Deacon signalled to the barman that they needed another round, and tossed some bills onto the sticky surface.

"She walk in on you gettin' it on?"

"Nobody was gettin' anythin' on, we were writin'. Samantha turned up out of nowhere, I don't even know how she knew I was home."

Vince, a little buzzed and fresh off a killer hangover, blew smoke rings up into the air and grinned. "In girl-speak, writin' a song is code for havin' the sex, Deac. Everyone knows that."

"I don't know that."

"You _didn't_ \- now you do. And how the hell did you not already?"

There was a yell of anticipation and Deacon spun on his stool just in time to catch the woman pot two balls at once. "I dunno, I ain't really done this co-writin' thing before. Not with anyone except you anyway, and no offense man but I ain't interested in gettin' it on with you."

"We only write songs about booze and girls. The day we write us a love song, you're gonna want in my pants, Claybourne, you mark my words."

Deacon laughed loudly, the alcohol hitting his veins and making him feel loose around the edges. A group of girls in short shorts and varying degrees of crop tops were gathered around a table at the other end of the room, making no secret of their interest in him and Vince, and he caught the eye of a blonde who bit her lip and uncrossed her legs. He looked away. Tequila made him horny as hell, and he would usually be all about those bedroom eyes she was giving him. He'd forget her name by morning, of course, and he wouldn't call her; he was an asshole, he was well aware. Samantha had been that same blonde across the bar a few months ago, except that somehow she'd inserted herself into his life as more of a regular feature and he wasn't entirely sure how, or how happy he was about that.

The girl said something to her friends behind her hand and got up from their table. She made a show of leaning over tantalisingly to order a round of shots, and the wink she directed at Deacon was fully loaded.

"The cheap stuff gets you drunk faster," she said, just as her friend called something to her in a high-pitched cackle. "See?" She thumbed towards her table. "They're all wasted. Wanna join us?"

Deacon looked over at the group of them, every single one hot. The girl next to him was sliding closer: she was cute, really cute. A whole lot of flesh on display and one hell of a brazen come-on.

It wasn't the thought of Samantha that rendered him entirely disinterested. If she'd walked over to him a few weeks earlier, he probably would have thrown it all to the wind and gone home with her anyway.

But it wasn't a few weeks earlier, and everything had changed. She wasn't Samantha, sure, but she wasn't Rayna, and that's what mattered. Suddenly, and he was pretty sure it was an irrevocable state, other girls held no appeal to him.

Vince blew out another smoke ring as the girl rejoined her table, sashaying her ass in the wake of Deacon's polite rejection. He leaned in, all tequila-wisdom and tobacco breath. "You, my friend, are screwed. One way or another, you're screwed."


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter brought to you by repeat listening of Brett Young - Here Tonight, and Devin Dawson - Asking for a Friend. They felt fitting for Rayna and Deacon at this stage and I had such fun listening to them and writing this chapter. So much so that this story is now 3 chapters long. I know I know - so much for a one-shot. **

**Happy birthday B! Happy reading - consider this gift-wrapped!**

Their next gig was a last-minute one, a five song set at a local bar, opening for an opener. They hadn't managed to get a rehearsal in during the week since Samantha had interrupted their writing session, and Deacon was pretty sure Rayna's excuses of being too busy with schoolwork weren't entirely true. Neither girl was happy with him, and to his dismay, Samantha had pried from him the details of the gig and had told him in no uncertain terms that she'd be there. _To support you_, were the words she'd used, but they were unmistakable girl-speak for _to keep an eye on you,_ and he was not thrilled at the prospect.

She'd called him three times while he'd been taking a shower and getting dressed. Three times. She'd asked what he was going to wear, what time he was picking her up, if he wanted to go to a houseparty one of her friends was throwing later that night. Rayna, on the other hand, hadn't called once. He'd called her - three times - but she hadn't picked up, and he found himself ready two hours before he needed to leave and pacing up and down in front of his bedroom door, wondering what he'd have said to her even if she had answered.

He picked at a cold pizza and cleaned the hardwood floor - there was a first time for everything - and changed his clothes a couple of times. He was starting to feel somewhat ridiculous and was contemplating heading outside to clean the fast food wrappers out of his truck when the phone rang. He groaned, no patience left to tell Samantha that the black heels were fine, sure they'd go with that skirt, uh-huh, and glanced at the clock on the wall that told him he needed to be getting his ass on the road.

"Yeah?" he said into the receiver on the tail-end of a sigh, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Hey," came Rayna's voice on the other end, and Deacon bolted upright. Rayna. Even with one word he could tell she sounded jittery, and for a moment he was sure she was going to tell him she'd found another guitar player, one who didn't look at her like she was the centre of the universe while neglecting to mention the existence of his bleach blonde girlfriend.

"Hey," he said, too damn eager. "What's up?"

Rayna hesitated. "I got a problem. I'm sorry to call, I really didn't want to bother you, but..."

"You're not botherin' me," he told her, too eager again, but fuck it. "What's the matter, Ray?"

"It's my Daddy," she said. "I've never really… told you about him, I know, but he doesn't like the music stuff." She laughed, a short, bitter sound. "That's puttin' it lightly. He found out about our gig tonight, well, he found out _I _was doin' a gig, and he about hit the roof, Deacon. He's forbidden me from goin', I'm not supposed to leave the house, even."

"What the hell? He can't do that Rayna, you're not some kind of prisoner."

"You don't know Daddy. He _can_ do that, believe me."

Deacon dropped onto a barstool. "What are we gonna do? We're due on stage in an hour and a half."

"I know," she said, and she sounded so sad his heart broke for her. Lamar Wyatt's formidable reputation was no joke, it seemed. "He took my car keys, I'm kinda stuck here. And my house, it's right over the other side of town. Guess I'm in a bit of a fix."

"Can you get out of the house without him knowing?"

Rayna paused for a moment, and he could hear a smile brewing. "There's a drainpipe right outside my bedroom window."

It was Deacon's turn to bark out a laugh. "You know how to climb down a drainpipe?"

"Sixteen years of living with my father? You bet I do."

He smiled, holding the phone close to his ear and feeling something rush through him, a warmth that filled him up; he knew, just knew, she was doing the same thing on the other end. "I'll pick you up wherever you can get to without him seein' - you tell me where and I'll leave right now and meet you there."

/

Samantha, for her part, had the good grace not to reach down the phone and murder him through it when he called to tell her she'd have to make her own way to the gig. She might have mastered the art had he not ended the call in 0.3 seconds and tossed the receiver down to hurry out of the door, but he was in his truck and speeding towards Belle Meade before her rage could reach its full potential.

Harding Pike, right before the park, Rayna had said, and sure enough as he pulled into the gas station there, she appeared around the corner. He drove the few extra metres towards her and she jumped in, motioning for him to put his foot down before she'd even closed the door.

"Did he follow you?"

"You just never know with Daddy," she told him wryly, twisting to look out the back window as they sped off - Deacon was not one to need telling twice when it came to not getting chased with a shotgun.

They took a left turn and headed down a long road without anyone appearing to be onto them, but only when they made it onto the highway did Rayna visibly relax. And burst into laughter.

"I can _not_ believe we pulled that off," she puffed, and when Deacon looked at her he saw her cheeks were flushed with exhilaration, the thrill filling her up. He grinned. "I feel like we just fled a bank robbery."

"Am I your getaway car Ray?" he asked, well aware he was flirting shamelessly with her. She gave him a devilish look in return and he felt his stomach contract, the feeling shooting into his fingertips. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"You know this makes you my accomplice," she teased. "You can't go back now, Deacon."

He laughed under his breath. No shit. "What if I don't want to go back?"

He watched as she turned her face to the open window, her lips pressed together.

"Hey Ray? I'm sorry about last week. About... Samantha."

"What are you sorry for?" she asked, watching the cars race by in the opposite direction.

Deacon chewed on his lip, wondering how much to say. "That I didn't tell you about her."

She finally looked at him, and he couldn't understand her expression. Another girl thing, maybe. Or a Rayna thing.

"Tell me what?"

"Look, she ain't my girlfriend. I know she said that but it's not like that."

She fiddled with her necklace, a silver butterfly on a short, delicate chain. "You don't have to justify yourself to me, Deacon, it's none of my business."

He couldn't tell if she looked hurt or pissed or something else entirely, so he let out a sigh and concentrated on the road ahead. It was starting to rain, big fat droplets splashing off the tarmac. He flipped the wipers on and they gave a gutteral protest.

"I just don't want you to think… hell I don't know."

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. He didn't know why he _was_ justifying himself - he and Rayna were friends, she'd never made it known she was interested in him as anything other than that, and he sure as shit knew he had to keep his own feelings under lock and key. But it felt wrong, spending so much time with her and growing so close and not telling her about a girl going around calling herself his girlfriend, whether he was allowing that to humour Samantha or not. It would have felt wrong to tell Rayna that too though, like he'd have been making a big deal out of something that really wasn't, and what would the point have been anyway?

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

/

The bar was packed, a seasoned crowd of revellers at hightop tables and barstools. Deacon felt Rayna's nerves as soon as they walked in; he watched her out of the corner of his eye as one of the bartenders met them and led the way to a narrow corridor in the back. She'd put on eyeliner and a lower-cut top than usual, making herself look older so she could blend in. She must have felt his eyes on her and glanced at him as the door from the bar swung closed behind them and the noise dulled.

"Your shit'll be safe here if you want to come get a drink before you go on," the guy told them, flipping his baseball cap on and off for no good reason. "No one steals the band's stuff, it just ain't how we do it around here." To Deacon's displeasure, he looked Rayna up and down, appreciation on his beady face. "On the house, for you," he said, and Rayna gave him a smile Deacon knew to be forced, though it would never have been obvious to anyone else.

"Thanks," Deacon said pointedly, taking a protective step closer to her. The guy shrugged and headed back into the bar.

"You know," Rayna said, dropping her bag on the floor and tugging her hairtie out to release the long waves that mesmerised him every time he looked at her, "I think I _do_ want a drink before we go on."

She stepped around him and pushed open the door and he stared after her, realising as it boomed against its rusty frame that a pretty girl in a bar full of drunks would be made fast prey of, and it wasn't the time to gawp around an empty hallway wondering whether she wanted him to follow. He leaned his guitar case against the wall and went after her, catching up as she slid onto a barstool and contorting himself around the old man drinking neat bourbon next to her. No surprise, Baseball Cap was already pouring her a drink, some dark liquid he was making a dumb show of trickling into a shot glass, and Rayna gave Deacon another inscrutable look and knocked it back in one.

She was still for just a beat, her lips in a tight line, until the stuff hit her throat and she screwed up her face.

"That is _horrible_," she said, all the huskier for the liquor burn.

Deacon laughed, watching her wince and shiver, and nodded to the asshole bartender that he'd take one too.

"Not a fan of whiskey, huh?" he said, knowing it was likely not something she'd had cause to be around much. He wished he hadn't either.

She hummed, looking at the leftover drops in the bottom of the glass. "I've never tasted it before." She seemed embarrassed, and he knew she was avoiding looking at him, so he bumped her shoulder and leaned in close.

"Now you know you ain't been missin' much," he said, and she gave him a little smile. Some sort of hope soared in his chest, that maybe she wasn't mad at him, or sad at him, and maybe she'd forgive him even if she was.

"When did you first try this stuff?" she asked, and the hope dropped all the way through his stomach. He looked into his own glass, tipped it back and swallowed; it burned, and he relished the harshness of it.

"When I was far too young," was all he said, hoping she'd drop the question, and she did. The man next to them settled his bill and left, and Deacon eased up onto the vacated stool, resting his elbows on the brass edge of the bar.

"Want somethin' a little more palatable? he asked, and she nodded. He ordered two cokes, watching as she sipped on hers in relief.

"Hey Deacon? That song you played for me a couple of weeks ago, the one you wrote about the rosebush in Natchez - is that where you grew up? Natchez?"

He bit the inside of his cheek, instantly feeling the urge for something stronger than coke. "Can I get a shot of Old Crow? A double, no ice," he said, and the bartender, to his credit, slid a generous one across to him.

Rayna waited patiently as he swallowed half of it in one go, and he took a deep breath before he spoke. "Yeah. Natchez is where I grew up."

"Why'd you leave?"

He laughed without a trace of humour. "You ever been to Natchez?" She shook her head, and he felt bad for a second. "Don't. It's a real hellhole."

She was undaunted, and she spoke with her face close to his, in their own little world in the middle of the busy bar. "Were you runnin' _to_ somethin' when you left Deacon, or away from somethin'?"

It was one thing keeping Samantha from her, but that was inconsequential, and she'd never asked so he'd never lied to her, just omitted the subject. There was something about Rayna though that made lying to her, really lying to her, something he just couldn't do.

"Both," he said, looking into her eyes.

"That song, is it true?"

The song was about a rosebush in the yard of the house he grew up in, the house his parents still lived in. His grandmama had planted it the year before she'd died somewhat prematurely from a stroke, and his mama had tended to it meticulously since. It was her only solace, it felt like, a piece of colour in the grey life she lived. She pruned and plucked that bush, watered and loved on it, and it was her pride, the centrepiece of her modest, mostly messy yard and the dilapidated house that sat in it. And then his father came home from one of his benders and set the rosebush on fire.

"Yeah," he said, breathing in deeply so he could smell the soothing scent of her skin, her clean, soft skin. "Yeah it's true."

He hadn't mentioned his father in the song, just the fire, and his mama, the metaphorical destruction of her hope. Rayna didn't answer, but she inched just a little closer and Deacon felt something roll off her, something powerful he couldn't have put into words.

"I'll take one of those too," she told the bartender, and she looked at Deacon as her lips met the glass. She didn't wince the second time around.

/

They befriended a group of old bikers, hairy and tattooed with a penchant for country music. Much to Deacon's admiration Rayna charmed the pants off the whole lot of them, and he found himself fixated on her as she laughed easily with them, fascinated by her strange magic. It made people lean in, pay attention, immediately warm to her. He thrilled with the pride of it, letting them assume that she was his girl, that he was lucky enough to have been chosen by her.

"We got twenty minutes," he said into her ear during a pause in the conversation, and she gave a gasp of excitement.

"We should go get ourselves ready," she said, and at the exact moment he took her hand to help her down from her stool, he spotted Samantha strutting towards them.

Deacon froze on the spot and felt Rayna tense, and he was grateful to see Vince and a couple of their buddies walking closely behind, their moral support for the set.

"Hi," Samantha said when she reached them, her face tight.

For a split second Deacon wondered if she was going to slap him, but she took the other route; her tongue was in his mouth before he could so much as greet her in return, and Rayna pulled her hand out of his quickly. His hand, of its own accord, reached out like a phantom limb in protest, and he wrenched himself back from Samantha.

"Forget I was comin', did you?" she asked, sugary sweet, but she had a glint of danger in her eye and Deacon's internal warning alarm sounded loudly. She plastered a smile on her face and inserted herself into his side, an arm tight around his waist, with a pointed look at Rayna. "Hey," she said, and Rayna gave a stiff wave.

Deacon _had_ forgotten she was coming, and he kicked himself yet again for being an ass. He'd told Rayna that Samantha had wanted to see their show, information she'd politely acknowledged, but in the couple of hours since he'd picked her up at the gas station, it had managed to escape his mind entirely and he could see the same was true for Rayna.

"Y'all ready to do some damage in this joint?" Vince said, leaning in to give Rayna a friendly hug.

She looked at Deacon, who couldn't have felt more awkward. "Oh, you bet."

"We should get goin'," he said, extracting himself from Samantha and ushering Rayna towards the back door.

They sorted themselves out without making eye contact, Rayna running over their short set list one more time to be sure she knew it, and Deacon tuned his guitar, giving her a quick strum to warm her voice up to.

"Y'all are good to go," the bar guy, whose name they'd learned was Josh, told them, poking his head around the door, an empty crate of beer under his arm.

Deacon gave Rayna a nod. Josh slung the crate through the fire exit into the parking lot out back and beckoned for them to follow him, but Rayna hesitated.

"You okay?" Deacon asked, brushing her arm with his fingers.

"I'm fine. Little nervous."

She'd had a rush of nerves before each gig they'd played, he knew that, but it was usually fuel that she used, part of the exhilaration; tonight she looked like she didn't want to go out there at all and that was new to him. He knew what the difference was, though: Samantha. This was the first time Rayna would stand next to him in front of her, singing songs that were personal and meaningful and Samantha was about to scrutinise every second. For all that was unspoken and all that Deacon was confused about between them, he knew Rayna wasn't happy that she was there.

"Pretend it's just us," he said, "just you and me in my front room, nobody else there."

She looked at him and for a second he thought she was going to give him a reassured smile, a hug maybe, the way she often did before they went on stage.

"You have lipstick on your face," she told him instead, strode past Josh and disappeared through the door. He wiped at his mouth quickly with his sleeve, ignoring Josh's amusement, and strode after her out into the bar and up onto the stage, throwing his guitar strap over his head.

"Ray…" he said, but she was already adjusting the mic and introducing them, to the delight of their newfound friends and some drunk women sitting nearby.

Samantha had commandeered a table a couple of feet away and was perched on a chair with her legs crossed, skintight dress and skyscraper heels earning her some looks from a group of leery men. Deacon saw Rayna glance nervously at her and tug on her own far less revealing skirt. Whatever she was feeling, though, she locked away and stormed her way through their first song, note-perfect and as confident as he'd ever seen her. She hit the chorus and turned to him as he joined in, and the instant their eyes met the whole room melted away. It was her, the music, and his guitar - nothing else mattered.

The rest of their set went the same way, and was over so much faster than he wanted it to be. The people paying attention applauded, the bikers whooping and calling Rayna's name from their spot at the bar, and she waved over at them.

"You killed it," he murmured into her ear, and she beamed at him and let him lead her off the stage, his hand on the small of her back.

They bounded back into the corridor and she threw her arms around his neck, her body warm, heart beating so hard that he could feel it as he held her tight.

He didn't have chance to say a word to her though. Samantha's hip was apparently able to swing the door all the way open with startling efficiency, and Rayna backed off, taking a big step away from him and busying herself tidying their stuff back into the corner pile.

"Well that was really somethin'," Samantha said, somewhat ominously, and Deacon accepted the wet kiss she pressed to his cheek. "Y'all really have been puttin' the time in, huh?"

"Yeah," he said with a shrug, and pulled off his guitar to pack it away.

"I say we all celebrate, don't you think?" she proposed, raising her voice and looking at Rayna, who smiled weakly.

With an impending sense of doom, Deacon followed them back into the bar, unsure what Samantha's intentions were but pretty certain they weren't good.

/

She didn't let go of him for the next hour. He had more lipstick on his face than she did, and at some point she re-applied, surely so she could brand him some more, her territory well and truly marked in _Desert Sunset _grease. It didn't matter what he did to try and dampen her efforts, she just doubled up, and he lost count of how many times he vowed never to tell her about any of their future gigs. He would become a fortress, he told himself; no information would slip past his lips no matter how much she tried to get it from him.

Rayna sat on her barstool and sipped on a drink, quieter than she usually was after a show. She chatted to Vince and their other buddies, but every kiss Samantha planted on Deacon made her look acutely uncomfortable, and his heart was in his boots.

"You and Deac sound great together," his friend Jase said, apparently oblivious to the situation. "You got somethin' real good there."

"Rayna's gonna be able to do the guitar stuff by herself soon though," Samantha interrupted, stroking Deacon's neck with her long nails. "Deacon's teachin' her, so she won't need him anymore. Isn't that right, Rayna?"

Rayna wasn't quite sure what to say, but Vince, the perfect mediator, winked discreetly at her and chimed in. "Deac's been tryin' to teach _me_ to play for years, I wouldn't hold your breath there."

Samantha frowned. "Can't you play already? I thought you were in that other band together?"

Deacon hid a chuckle and hooked one of his boots onto the rim at the bottom of his stool, jiggling his free leg up and down. "Vinny's just messin' with you. He means it, ah, takes a while, learnin' guitar. It's a steady process." He caught Rayna's eye and she gave him the smallest flicker of one of those only-for-you smiles; it felt like a secret passing between them and sweet relief flooded him. They would go back to normal as soon as Samantha wasn't there, their music, the thing between them, it was all still intact.

"Oh." Samantha pulled a face. "Well how long of a process? 'Cause all these gigs and all this writin' songs," she purred, and gave Rayna a look as she slid her hand dangerously high up Deacon's thigh, "it's takin' up a lotta time we could be doin' _other_ stuff."

Deacon stopped her hand before it could go any further and twisted on his stool, desperate to put some distance between them but not sure how to do it without offending her. Rayna picked up her drink and drained it, and excused herself to go to the bathroom.

She was gone far too long - he knew because he scanned the room for her every couple of minutes, something Samantha didn't miss; she manoeuvered herself in front of his line of sight, trying her damndest to get him to focus on her instead. He tried to listen to what she was saying, to appear slightly less shitty than he knew he was being, but Rayna clouded his mind, a constant state he'd found himself in since she'd walked into his life. He wondered if she had any idea what she did to him.

It was twenty minutes later when he realised she'd re-appeared alright, but instead of coming back to their spot at the bar, she'd joined the bearded bikers over by a shabby pool table, the group of them surrounding her in an appreciative gaggle. Josh had become her personal bartender, it seemed, and he leaned against a hightop and watched her knock back shots he brought her, looking like he was just as captivated as every damn guy who was lucky enough to have a minute of her attention. Deacon watched, jealous, impressed by her ability to hold court but rattled that she didn't look over at him once.

"Your singer chick's cute," Jase said, following Deacon's gaze, and he saw Vince's eyebrows shoot up, already eager to see how this conversation would go.

"If you like redheads," Samantha countered, turning to see what they were looking at and shrugging. She studied Rayna critically, her lips pursed so hard they looked like they might pop.

"I _do_ like redheads. Especially fuckin' hot ones."

"Dude," Deacon warned, "don't talk about her like that, Jase."

"Was that stuff about her and Deac soundin' good together you tryin' to _flirt_ with her?" Vince asked. "You're rusty, man, even I didn't pick up on that - you gotta try harder."

"You _don't_ gotta try harder, you don't gotta try at all," Deacon said, and Samantha gave him an eyeballing.

"What's wrong with him flirtin' with her?" Her face lit up with sudden hopefulness. "Unless she has a boyfriend - does she have a boyfriend?"

"No, she doesn't have a boyfriend," Deacon said with a frown, but it occurred to him suddenly that a week ago Rayna hadn't known he had a girlfriend, or whatever Samantha was, and he felt a jolt of worry he didn't care to examine. "At least I don't think she does."

"So what's the problem then? Jase is a guy, Rayna's a girl. Clearly you've noticed _that_."

If it was a thinly veiled invitation into an argument, he glossed over it and straightened his shoulders. Vince sniggered opposite him, enjoying himself. "None of y'all need to be corruptin' her," Deacon said, "she's got her music to be focusin' on. She's got real potential, she don't need that messed up before it's even started."

"Fair point man." Jase held up his hands. "For what it's worth though, I _do_ think y'all sounded good together, real fuckin' good actually, you'd do well to stick with her. That girl is really somethin', I don't even know what it is about her, but she's goin' places."

Samantha gave an annoyed, high-pitched cough and draped herself back on Deacon's knee without a hint of subtlety.

"I think that's quite enough Rayna for one night," she declared, reaching over him for her glass of chardonnay. "Anyway, I was thinkin'," she said, to him only, "you and me should go on a vacation, babe. Somewhere hot. I have this teeny tiny bikini you'd just love... Deacon? Are you even listening to me?"

Across the bar, Josh had abandoned his job altogether and had picked up a pool cue, slid it into Rayna's hands and was wrapped around her, pulling the old I'll-show-you-how-to-pot-this-ball trick. The ball in question shot into the pocket and Josh lifted her up in celebration. He reached behind him and picked up a full glass of something, and she swayed a little as he held it out to her.

"Deacon? I said we could go sunbathe on a boat."

"Yeah," he said, "a boat, sure."

Josh's arm crept around Rayna's shoulders and she didn't so much as flinch, a sure sign she'd had too many. She wasn't a drinker, she'd told Deacon that, and he'd lost count of how many she'd had, or what was even in half of the drinks in the first place. She went to take a sip from the mystery glass and he shot into action.

"I gotta…" he told Samantha, standing up and untangling himself from her. He didn't quite register her barrage of outrage - he was already striding towards the pool table.

"Whoa," he said, reaching Rayna and intercepting the glass after she'd taken a sip. He set it down. "I think that's enough, Ray."

"Spoil sport," she pouted, and he saw how pink her cheeks were, how unfocused she was.

"Hey man," Josh protested, "she's fine. I got her."

"Oh I'm sure you wish you did. Just back off, okay? She's with me."

"I don't need a babysitter, Deacon," she told him, annoyed. She turned away from him and picked up the discarded pool cue.

"C'mon Ray, just come back over there with me. Listen, I'm not gonna let you get in any trouble, you know that."

She eyed him over her shoulder. "_Let _me?"

"That's not what I mean, you know what I mean." He scowled at Josh, who was still hanging around her like a bad smell, getting in the way of him trying to get through to her. "Do you mind, man? We're tryin' to talk here."

"No," Rayna said, holding up a hand dismissively and lining up her shot, "_you're_ tryin' to talk. I'm playin' pool."

Josh shrugged, an irritating smugness all over his face. "You heard the girl. Seems to me she can look after herself."

"Rayna-"

She slammed the ball into a corner pocket, no help needed, and the bikers whistled and whooped, one of them holding up a chubby hand to high-five her. When she turned around to face Deacon she looked entirely lucid. "Why don't you go on back to your girlfriend over there, huh? She looks like she's not at _all_ happy with you."

Josh handed her the drink again and this time she took a gulp, her eyes fixed on Deacon as she swallowed.

"Ray, I'm serious, c'mere." He tugged on her arm and to his surprise she reluctantly let him pull her around to the other side of the hightop for a marginal amount of privacy. "I'm pretty sure part of the reason Watty wanted me to team up with you was to look out for you," he said, leaning in close to her, "and to make sure creeps like _that_ aren't takin' advantage of you."

"Oh is that why, Deacon? Is that why you said yes? You wanna play my big brother?"

"No, I don't wanna play your big brother, Rayna. You know that."

"Do I?" She laughed. "I don't know _what_ I know." She wobbled a little and looked over his shoulder towards the bar. "I _do_ know your girlfriend is not happy about you singin' with me though. You should probably not do it anymore."

"I'm not gonna stop singin' with you. I don't care what anyone else thinks, you and me… this thing…"

She waited for him to finish the sentence, but he faltered. "This thing what?"

"I don't know," he said but it came out too quietly, the main act on stage now, people getting drunker and rowdier by the minute. He threw his arms in the air. "I don't know," he said again, louder, "but whatever it is, I sure as hell don't wanna stop doin' it."

"Don't you?" she asked. "Because if you do, it's okay. You don't owe me anything. This is your out - take it, if you want to take it."

He took her hand, glad they were shielded from view. "I don't want an out. I'm all in, Rayna."

He couldn't be sure she read the dual meaning in his words, or if he even wanted her to, but she nodded, and when he suggested she let him take her home, she didn't protest. She waved goodbye to the bikers, left Josh looking equal parts pissed and dismayed that he was missing out on hitting on her any further, and let Deacon lead her back to the bar.

"I'm gonna drive Rayna home," he told their friends, Samantha's face turning a livid shade of purple. "Vinny'll make sure you get back okay Samantha. I'll call you."

He didn't wait for her to say anything, and he felt her eyes boring into the back of his head as he walked Rayna outside to his truck, pretty sure he'd just earned himself a break-up, and damn sure it was what he deserved.

/

They were quiet in the car until they were far enough away from the bar for the streets to become empty, Deacon heading for the interstate without knowing where exactly they were going.

Rayna looked outside as they drove, the window rolled down to let some cooling fresh air in to help sober her up, her head resting against the cracked leather front seat.

"Can I tell you somethin'?" she asked as they drove past a semi, its driver singling along to his radio emphatically; it was like mime, a fleeting peep into a silent performance they could see but couldn't hear.

"Sure," he said, immediately nervous.

"I think I _did_ have too much to drink. Just a little."

He chuckled, and reached out to move a strand of hair that was stuck across her face. "If I had a dime for every time I've been overserved."

"Just a little?"

"Maybe a lot." He tapped the steering wheel, one of their songs in his head. "Okay, definitely a lot."

Rayna hummed, closing her eyes and shifting down in the seat to get comfortable.

"You need me to pull over?"

"No. I just need to go to bed."

He took the exit that would lead them back to the gas station, figuring if her house was close enough for her to have walked there it would be a good marker to head for.

"It's the next left down here," she told him. "Towards Belle Meade."

The next left led them down a tree-lined toad that opened out into a part of town he'd never been to before. Houses were dotted here and there, affluent, palatial houses, set far back from the road in sprawling green space. They got bigger the further they drove, Deacon glancing at Rayna to search her face for signs they might be getting close.

"Nice," he said. Rayna screwed up her face.

"They're stuffy. No one needs a house so big."

"Well sure, no one _needs_ one. No one needs a hundred pairs of cowboy boots in different colours either." He nudged her foot, teasing her, and she rolled her eyes at him.

"Well of course I need _those_. Boys don't understand."

"Oh is that right?"

"Uh huh, that's damn right. This is it."

He was so busy staring at her that he missed the house altogether and pulled up just after it, lucky, really - a rusty truck parked out front of the biggest pile on the whole damn street would have had her father thinking he was being robbed if he happened to look outside.

"_That's_ your house?" he asked. It looked like the White House's younger brother, tall pillars and a wraparound porch no one had ever sat on, surely, sprinklers dusting the lawn with drops that shimmered in a glow from the uplighters that lined a path towards the front door.

"It's Daddy's house," Rayna said. "I just live there."

He studied her; she ran her hands through her hair, sighing before she made a move to leave.

"You okay gettin' in?"

"Sure. Thanks for the ride, Deacon. I appreciate it."

She jumped down from the truck, landing unsteadily on her feet and having a tough time staying upright. Deacon was out of the driver's side and around to her before she could lose her balance, and he looped an arm around her waist and gave her a moment to recover.

"That's a real big step," she grumbled, tossing the truck a dirty look, and he laughed.

"It sure is. Want me to help you inside, Ray?" She gave a shrug, and then a squinty nod, and he closed her door quietly, took her arm and walked her towards the house, sweeping the windows to make sure Lamar Wyatt and his shotgun weren't lurking in wait.

"Around here," Rayna said, motioning vaguely to the right. "There's a side door."

She rummaged in her purse to find her keys when they reached it, cursing their elusive jangle until she snagged them and held them up in triumph. The door opened without a creak, thankfully, and Deacon crept through it with her. They stood in a long, pristine kitchen, one of those chunky islands in the middle he'd only ever seen on TV, polished pots and utensils hanging from some kind of floating stainless steel contraption above it.

"Your boots," he whispered, grasping her elbow before she could walk across the shiny tiled floor, "you gotta take 'em off."

"Huh?"

"They'd make too much noise, you'd wake the whole house up."

"Oh," she said, and sat down gracelessly in the middle of the floor to yank them off her feet; he knelt in front of her to help, and together they got her barefoot. She stood shakily and held onto him, pointing towards a foyer where a wide, ornate staircase led to another floor. "Up there," she said, and he tucked her boots under one arm and her under the other and helped her climb them.

Her room was at the end of a long hallway, old oil paintings of landscapes and presumably ancestral family members hanging all the way along it, past what looked like a library from an old movie and about twelve closed doors, behind any one of which could have lain Lamar and certain death.

"Daddy's room's upstairs on the next floor," she said, as though reading his mind, and he relaxed a fraction of a fraction, but scanned the hallway behind him anyway.

They made it into her bedroom, and Deacon breathed a sigh of temporary relief, closing the door safely behind them. He put Rayna's boots down and she unravelled herself from him, weaving towards her bed; he hovered by the wall, looking around in the darkness, trying to calculate how the events of the evening could possibly have led to him being in Rayna Jaymes' bedroom.

It wasn't like the rest of the house, from what he'd seen of it, and he'd seen enough. It felt like someone actually lived in the room, for a start: there were school books piled on a desk, framed photographs on the walls, a pile of clothes draped over a dressing table stool, presumably those that hadn't quite made the cut to be chosen as her outfit for the night. It looked like her, remnants of her everywhere, tidy and together but warm, open, disorderly in the best way. It smelled like her too, even with the window slightly ajar so the evening air drifted through; she had a sweet, talcum powder scent, subtle and intoxicating and he certainly should not be standing in her bedroom at 2am pondering how good she smelled.

She slept with a notebook next to her pillow, Deacon noticed when he tried to distract himself from his roaming thoughts. A beat-up guitar lay at the foot of the bed, a couple of discarded picks on the covers next to it.

"Been practisin'?" he asked, and Rayna dropped onto the bed..

"Not that it helps. I could play for a hundred years and I'd still never be anywhere near as good as you."

He shook his head, about to reassure her that practise made perfect, that everybody had to start somewhere, when she reached for the hem of her dress, pulled it up over her head and shocked the hell out of him.

She had a slip on underneath, thankfully, but he averted his eyes anyway, out of respect for her rather than the desire not to look.

She screwed up her face, unfocused, dropping the dress on the floor. "Why is the room spinnin'?"

Deacon laughed softly. "The room isn't spinnin', it's your head that's doin' that. You might not feel so good tomorrow."

She had an ensuite bathroom, he could see through the open door at the far end of the room, and he found a glass on the sink and filled it with cold water. He'd pulled a strip of painkillers out of the glove compartment in his truck and pocketed them to bring inside, knowing she'd likely need them the next day, and he popped a couple out and set the rest down on her nightstand.

"Here," he said, handing them to her with the glass, "if you take these now you can get ahead of the hangover, and you're gonna want to drink as much of this as you can, it'll help you not feel as bad when you wake up. Trust me on that - water is your friend."

She drank dutifully, a little shiver running through her at the chill of the water, and he waited for her to finish, putting the glass on the nightstand when she gave it back it to him. She rose to her knees and tried to pull the covers free, letting out a little grunt of frustration when she couldn't manage it.

"I got that," he told her, easing her to her feet and peeling them back so she could slip underneath. He pulled them up around her and she settled back among the abundance of marshmallow pillows. He perched on the very edge of the bed, careful not to sit too close, watching her to be sure it didn't make her uncomfortable.

"Thanks Deacon," she said quietly.

"Don't thank me. It's my fault you feel like this."

"Your fault? How is it your fault?"

"I shoulda been takin' better care of you, Ray. I shoulda been watchin' out for you better. I know you can look after yourself and all, I ain't tryin' to be patronisin' or nothin' like that. But that guy was takin' advantage, and givin' you all those drinks and…" He sighed. "I didn't do my job well tonight, Ray. I let you down."

"Your job?" she asked, her mouth turned up in amusement. "As my guitar player? Isn't your job to play guitar? 'Cause you were pretty great at that tonight from where I was standin'." She wriggled her foot out from under the covers and poked his leg with it.

"As your friend," he said. "My job as your friend."

Her face grew serious, echoing his, and she sat up further. "Actually, you're the best friend I've ever had, Deacon. You're here, aren't you? And _I'm_ here, safe and warm in my bed, thanks to you. I gotta make my own mistakes sometimes." She pushed her foot against him again. "A little headache tomorrow isn't so bad a price to pay."

Deacon laughed. "Oh, you might take that back when you wake up with a mouth full of sawdust and an army of tiny people drillin' in your skull."

She groaned and dropped back into her cocoon, tossing a pillow at him. "Do you remember your first hangover?"

Deacon fell quiet, and Rayna stilled; he knew she sensed that it wasn't a lighthearted memory of a harmlessly wayward teenage night for him. She waited for him to speak and he fidgeted with a corner of her comforter, twirling a loose piece of cotton around his finger, wondering how much to share with her.

"I do remember it. I remember it was hell."

"How old were you?"

She'd innocently asked him a similar question earlier in the night and he'd skirted it, but he didn't feel like doing so a second time. He took a deep breath. "I was ten." Rayna raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. "I'd been drinkin' neat whiskey, it wasn't a nice feelin', wakin' up to the after effects of that."

She rolled onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow, watching him intently. "Where did you get the whiskey from, so young?"

"My Daddy."

"Did he get angry with you when he found out?"

When he found out. Deacon almost laughed, not at her, but at the absurdity of the memory, the brutality of it, how out of place it seemed there like poison in his head while he was sat on a mattress that felt like a cloud, 1000 thread count sheets under his fingers, Rayna in front of him with her silky hair and her freckled nose and the rhythmic, faint sound of her breathing.

"He was the one who gave it to me." He looked away from her, down at his hands. He didn't want to see what the filth of it would do to her sweet face, to witness the moment it would change the way she saw him. "He made me drink it."

Rayna gave a little intake of air, not quite a gasp, and he was pretty sure he felt it rather than heard it, the tiny shift of her weight on the bed. "He made you?"

Deacon nodded. "He ain't a good man, my Daddy. Or a good father, puttin' it mildly. Guess we both drew short straws in that deal."

She didn't ask him any more questions, the weariness and the edge in his voice enough to make her see he could give her no more answers, and instead she reached for his hand. Gently, without insistence or grandeur, she closed her fingers around his. It sent a jolt through him, the softness of it, the intense reassurance he felt from such a simple gesture. Her hand was warm, delicate, sure; it felt like a lifeline. He wanted to hold onto it forever. He dropped the thread, the distraction, and grasped her fingers instead.

He lifted his face to look at her, feeling shame, feeling small, but he found she was staring back at him without a trace of judgement, not a single hint that she saw him as unclean or tainted. Her eyes were clear and kind, the understanding in them undoing him completely. If he could tell her even a part of the darkness that made up who he was, the vile secrets he'd been built on, and have her accept him, maybe it meant he wasn't the monster he thought he was. If Rayna, this girl he'd felt tip his entire world sideways in the first second he'd laid eyes on her, could see him as something other than that, it had to mean he _was_ something other than that, didn't it?

"I'm glad you're here, Deacon," she whispered, and he knew she meant it as broadly as she did literally, that he'd found his way to her.

"I am too, Ray. More than I know how to say."

His eyes landed on a stuffed animal at the bottom of the bed and she saw it at the same time and blushed, reaching for it and stuffing it under her pillows.

"Hey," he said, "I've got my childhood bear in my sock drawer at my place. Bert. I still talk to the little guy whenever I got a problem, keeps all my secrets. That bear's probably the best thing I got outta my whole childhood."

Rayna put her hands over her face. "I wasn't exactly expectin' you to see my bedroom when I left earlier." She cracked her fingers to look at him through them. "It looks like a kid's room, I know."

"I don't think so. I think it looks like somewhere you probably spend a lot of time hidin' away from the rest of this house. It's pretty intimidatin'."

"Yeah," she murmured. "It is. You should see it when Daddy's stormin' around."

"It doesn't feel very much like _you_," he told her, and wasn't sure why he felt nervous to say so.

"It used to feel more like home, before Mama died." She let out a slow breath. "I could still never get on with chandeliers and collectible china though. Neither could she. This house is more my father and Tandy, they suit all this."

Deacon nodded. They were on the edge of town, almost in the countryside; it was completely dark but for a solitary security light that must have been fixed onto the side of the house just below her window. The faint light illuminated her face just enough for him to see the sheen of her eyes. If it had been the first time he'd looked into them he would have known her; it had been that way from the first moment with Rayna, like he'd seen her from a thousand miles away and recognised her instinctively. It made perfect sense and no sense at all.

"But _you_ suit cowboy boots and guitars you don't know how to play yet," he said. "You suit writin' songs late at night, _always_ drivin' the wrong way down my street when you leave, 'cause you're so excited that we just made somethin' special, and 'cause your sense of direction is terrible."

She swiped at him, shaking her head. "My sense of direction is great."

He laughed, just for a moment. "You suit takin' the soggy bottom of the bun off your cheeseburger, and singin' songs that sound like your soul is comin' right out of your mouth. That's who you are, Ray. I see exactly who you are."

She breathed hard, her fingers curled in the covers. "I think you're the only person on earth who understands me, Deacon. How can that be so?"

"I don't know," he said, "but it sure as hell makes for some great songs."

She snuggled deep into her bed and looked at him until her eyes closed, ignoring her fight to keep them open.

"Goodnight Deacon," she sighed, and he stood up, drinking in the peaceful sight of her.

"Goodnight Ray," he said, and he looked at her for just another moment before he crossed to the window and climbed down the drainpipe.


	3. Chapter 3

Deacon woke from a deep sleep to hear his neighbours mowing their lawn. The disruption pulled him from a heady dream, and it would have irritated him usually, but it didn't feel like a usual kind of morning. His sheets were cool and he stretched beneath them, rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, in no hurry to get out of his bed.

A good night's sleep was a thing of mythology to Deacon Claybourne, something he was so unfamiliar with that he wasn't entirely sure he was awake at all. He took in a long breath and let it out slowly. The house was quiet; the old clock on his wall told him it was 9am, practically the middle of the night for Vince, who would be asleep until lunchtime easily.

She'd held his hand. It had sent a feeling through him that he couldn't describe, some powerful concoction of elation and calm that made no sense, feelings that shouldn't be able to co-exist.

He rolled to the edge of his bed. His notebook was still open, a chewed up pen - Rayna's handiwork - wedged between the pages. Pages filled with lyrics, the kind that didn't take any thinking about, that tumbled onto paper almost unconsciously. Funny how that happened with the songs he wrote about her.

And they were _all_ about her, if he was honest. Every single song he'd written since the day he'd met her.

She called him as he was poking at some eggs he'd scrambled, chasing them around his plate with a slack smile, his appetite nowhere close to bringing them to his mouth.

"Hey," she said on the other end of the receiver, followed by a sheepish little laugh.

"Hey Ray," Deacon replied with a grin so big he could hear it in his own voice. "How you feelin' today?"

Rayna groaned. Her voice was muffled, like she was calling him from somewhere she shouldn't be. "I've felt better. I've felt a _lot_ better."

"Oh yeah? Got that poundin' head huh?"

"The poundin' head, the feelin' like I might throw up if I move an inch." Deacon felt her roll her eyes. "I'm pretty sure I swallowed woodchips too."

"Oh, you got a good one. Today's probably not gonna be so fun."

"Will my head ever not feel like it's broken?"

He chuckled. "You'll feel brand new by tomorrow, I promise."

Rayna gave a wistful murmur. "Are they always quite this bad?"

"Hangovers? They get worse. It's all downhill from here." Deacon swirled some hot sauce into his eggs and played with them some more. 'You gotta eat greasy food and drink a lotta coffee, it's the only way."

"Hey Deacon?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about last night. I feel so dumb, I made such a fool of myself, and then you had to bring me home, and I was just a _mess_. I'm real sorry about that."

"Hey now, you got nothin' to be sorry for. You weren't anythin' close to a mess, Ray. Hell, I been in way worse shape a whole lot of times, _way_ worse." He put his fork down, holding the phone close to his ear. "An' I was real happy to take you home - it was my favourite part of the night. 'Cept for singin' with you, anyway."

Rayna was quiet for a moment. "Was Samantha mad at you?"

Immensely. "Nah."

She laughed, clearly not believing him. "Hey, you know what? You drivin' me home was my favourite part of the night too."

He thought about that handful of words all morning.

/

It was Vince who answered the door, late enough into the day for him to be at least partially dressed, though still too early for him to have showered. From his spot in the yard where he was playing about with some tunes, Deacon heard the knock, and looked up from his guitar at the sound of approaching heels.

"So you _are_ here," Samantha said, coming to a halt in front of him and blocking his sunlight.

He squinted at her from his lawnchair, not quite able to see her face; she looked like a shadow towering over him. "I… yeah," he said, aware he wasn't hiding his surprise well.

"Thought you might have spent the night elsewhere," she said pointedly. She looked around the yard, as though Rayna might pop out from behind a bush.

Deacon propped his guitar beside the chair and sat up, rubbing sweaty palms on his jeans. He wasn't sure why she was there, but he figured it was time to front up to the situation, apologise to her for messing her around and remind her she'd left some girl-clothes in his bedroom that she should pick up on her way out.

He was debating whether _it's been fun_ was an adequate parting line when she lowered herself swiftly onto his knee. He was so startled he almost dropped her, and she grabbed him around the neck, her lips making contact with his cheek before he could say anything.

"I know it's been kinda weird lately, babe," she said, in a saccharine but sincere voice. "I feel like you an' me have just had no time together just _us_, and whatever last night was, I don't care." She waved an arm in the air and he caught the scent of flowers, the really sweet kind that overwhelmed his senses. "You're here now, and that's all that matters."

"Samantha," he started, but she shook her head and shushed him with a finger on his lips.

"So many guys are assholes," she said, "but you're not one of them." She cupped his face with both hands. "You're one of the good ones, Deacon Claybourne. I know you are."

Well shit. He had no idea how to react, but breaking up with her and wrecking her view of guys entirely wasn't how he wanted to follow such a sentiment.

"I'm really not, Samantha."

"Hey, I know you're way too modest to admit it, but it's the truth." She scraped her fingernail through the scruff on his chin lightly. "And what you're doing for Rayna, helping her out, I think that's really decent of you. I mean, she's young, and she seems really innocent - so many guys would take advantage of her. It's great she has you there to look out for her and make sure that doesn't happen."

Deacon, feeling guilty as hell, smiled weakly and muttered something about putting a pot of coffee on.

/

"You're a pussy."

"Fuck off Vinny. I didn't know what to do."

"You didn't know how to break up with a girl you're not remotely interested in?"

The park was strewn with a few other people here and there, but none were crazy enough to jog in the heat of the Nashville summer, and Deacon paused to catch his breath, trying to remember which one of them had had such a ridiculous idea.

"It's not as simple as that."

Vince bent over and rested his palms on his knees, wheezing. Too much beer and not enough exercise - lucky they were young enough to have metabolisms that didn't fear fast food. "It sure as hell _looked_ simple when she left your bedroom this mornin'. She stay all afternoon _and_ all night?"

Deacon sighed. He had no idea how to get himself out of whatever mess he was in, but guilt and self-doubt went a long way towards keeping him suspended in it. "I guess we weren't broken up like I thought."

Vince scoffed. "Well sure, she ain't lettin' you off the hook that easily. You've really got to hand it to the girl, she knows how to get you right where she wants you."

"What do you mean?"

"Come on man, she's yankin' your chain." At Deacon's confusion Vince rolled his eyes as though it was all so obvious - and maybe it was - a sheen of sweat on his upper lip from their half-hearted exertion. "Samantha knows damn well you're into Rayna. Flauntin' her assets ain't done a thing to turn your head back in her direction, so she's switchin' tactics." He gave Deacon a side glance and saw he still wasn't following. "She's puttin' you in a place where you can't bring yourself to disappoint her."

"She said it was great I was helpin' Rayna out and not hittin' on her like a lot of other guys would."

"And how did that make you feel?"

"Like an ass, 'cause I sure as hell want to. Made me feel like I was treatin' Samantha real bad too."

"There you go. Samantha is manipulatin' the shit out of you, my friend. It's girl 101."

"How the hell you know that?"

Vince fixed a wise look on his face. "I know women, Deac." He set off again and Deacon stared after him for a moment before he followed.

"So what do I do?" he asked when he caught up.

"What happened the other night, when you took Rayna home?"

"I drove her to her house."

"You left before any of us and you didn't get home until after _I _did, and I tried to get a girl with double E-cups to give me her number in that damn bar, so I wasn't home for a _while_."

Deacon laughed. "She give it to you?"

"No she did not." Vince winked at him. "Her friend did though." He stretched his arms above his head, managing not to break his stride. "So did you kiss her?"

"Who?"

"Jesus, Claybourne. Rayna. Did you kiss Rayna?"

A round woman carrying the smallest dog Deacon had ever seen jogged past in the opposite direction and lifted an eyebrow at them. Vince gave her an exaggerated wave.

"No I didn't kiss her, of course I didn't kiss her. I just drove her home." Deacon shrugged his shoulders and fought the urge to shove his hands in his pockets defensively. "We talked."

"You talked? What, you sat outside her house where her Daddy could've seen you and had a chat?"

"No. We sat in her room."

Vince wheeled around at that. "You went _in_? Into one of those crazy big houses?" He held up a hand and stopped Deacon's steps. "Hang the fuck on a minute - you were in Rayna's bedroom?"

Deacon avoided looking straight at him. "It ain't a big deal." It was a very big deal. "She was a little overserved, she needed some help gettin' up."

Vince snorted. "I'll bet _you_ didn't."

"Look, it was perfectly innocent, okay? We talked for a while, that's it. It got pretty deep though, I mean real big stuff. I ain't talked to any girl like that before, ever." He shrugged. "And then I left."

"And then Samantha came over."

Deacon let out a loud groan. "Shit. _Shit_ Vinny. What am I doin'?" He wiped a hand over his face. "I can't stop thinkin' about her. I wake up and I'm thinkin' about her. I go to sleep and I'm fuckin' thinkin' about her."

"I'm gonna just go ahead and assume you're not talkin' about Samantha."

Deacon dropped onto a nearby bench. "I ain't never felt like this."

"So you gotta _do_ somethin' about it. You gotta make a move, before it drives you nuts. Any more than you already are."

"I can't. I just can't."

"Says who?"

"Says Watty White, for one. He asked me to look after Rayna, I'm pretty sure keepin' my damn hands off her was part of the deal."

Vince stood beside the bench, one hand on a bony hip, a sage expression on his face. "Listen, Watty White ain't no fool. He asked you to step in and work with Rayna 'cause you're shit hot with a guitar, sure, but he also knows there ain't no makin' good music without chemistry. That dude knew exactly what'd happen when he paired y'all up - he was lookin' for that lightnin' in a bottle kinda magic, and he fuckin' found it Deac."

Deacon knew he was right, but it didn't make him feel any better. He let his face drop into his hands. "She's sixteen. I'd be takin' advantage, and I can't do that. She trusts me."

"You're not exactly ancient yourself, you know," Vince countered, sitting down beside him and draping an arm over the back of the bench; Deacon turned his face and peered at him sideways through a crack in his fingers.

"What if I tell her how I feel and she doesn't feel the same, and I scare her off? I can't be without her in my life now. I _need_ her. I don't know how that's happened but it has."

He only realised how much it worried him as he heard it out loud. He pictured it, the terrifying moment he'd gamble everything and lose her, and white-hot fear shot through him.

Vince, on the other hand, was entirely unperturbed. "You gotta stop makin' excuses. Have you heard yourself?" He looked at Deacon for a long moment. "Are you keepin' Samantha around to stop yourself from tellin' Rayna how you feel?"

For the first time, Deacon let himself hear the question without being defensive. "Honestly? I don't even know. Maybe. All I know is that while she's in the picture I can't go actin' on any of this, not without bein' a complete jerk. So maybe it stops me from doin' somethin' that might ruin everythin' with Rayna, yeah." He kicked at a loose rock with the already-scuffed toe of his boot. "Think I been hopin' Samantha would do it first anyway, break up with me, slap me in the face or somethin', whatever. Just get it done and be pissed at me, instead of me havin' to hurt her."

Vince let out a low whistle and leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs. "Well, looks like Samantha ain't lettin' you get out of this so easily. If it makes you feel any better though she's gonna be pissed at you either way." He chuckled for a moment. "You got a situation, and I'm not gonna lie to you, it's a pretty tasty one. Two hot girls and a good dose of heartbreak - think of the songs it'll make for."

Deacon, despite himself, laughed. It felt like a good release, the tightness in his chest lifting just enough for him to notice for the first time what a pretty day it was. "That's for sure. I can't stop writin' since all of this."

"See, there's a bright side for ya. The heart wants what it wants, Deac, and yours wants Rayna. You gotta do what you gotta do, buddy, but you and I both know though you're not gonna be able to ignore it forever." Vince squinted up at the sun, considering. "I got a bet on Samantha havin' a killer right-hook."

#

A week passed, and other than the time he was working shifts at an auto repair shop just off Gallatin, Deacon was alone precisely for the time it took him to shower in the morning, and not a moment longer. Samantha had all but moved into the house, and she was making damn sure she left no time for him to see Rayna.

It wasn't even just that she was _there_, omnipresent - she'd planned activities. So many activities. They'd been to dinner, to a movie, to a pool party, to the damn zoo - he'd never been to the zoo before in his life. She'd paraded him around to several of her friend's houses, cook-outs and drinks and pre-drinks, sure at every one to use the word _boyfriend_ generously and to lavish affection on him. He'd never felt more uncomfortable.

He missed Rayna. He missed writing with her, he missed singing with her. He missed standing on a stage and feeling eyes on them, knowing people were wondering about them, what they were to each other. He missed just being around her, soaking her in, lucky enough to exist in her orbit.

It was with that same ache that he woke one morning from a typically restless night, fresh from a dream he knew was about Rayna but it evaporated before he could bring it into consciousness. He stared up at the ceiling and breathed in deeply through his nose, letting the feeling of her fading away wash over him. When he turned his head and looked to his left, he saw Samantha sleeping soundly, her mouth open wide, and he realised that in his sleep he'd rolled as far to the opposite side of the bed as he could without falling out of it.

Cursing himself, he pulled the covers back just enough to slip out from under them and opened the door carefully. The house was quiet, Vince asleep, and he crept into the kitchen. At least if he could call her, he thought as he reached for the phone on the wall, he could tell her why he wasn't in touch. In a usual week he'd have seen her several times - hell, he'd started to plan his shifts around when she had shorter school days so he could meet her in their diner, the one far enough from where she lived that she wouldn't be seen by anyone who might report back to her father. East Nashville was the wrong side of town, as far as Lamar Wyatt thought, so it had become their safe place, Deacon's house and their regular haunts all tucked away from his watchful eye.

He was dialling her number - he knew it off by heart - when he felt Samantha's arms grip his waist, a little too tightly to be casual.

"Who you callin'?" she asked, the effort to keep the accusatory tone out of her voice making her sound pinched.

His fingers twitched on the cold plastic. "I was just gonna see how my sister's doin'."

"Your sister? At 8am on a Sunday mornin'?" She manoeuvred herself between him and the phone. "I'd say she's doin' better not gettin' woken up by a ringin' telephone. Come back to bed."

He stared at the phone sadly as she pulled it out of his grip and hung it back on its cradle. Maybe he could pass Vince a secret note at breakfast, he thought as she chivvied him back to his bedroom. Lamar Wyatt seemed like a walk in the park compared to Samantha Beasley.

#

Vince worked the occasional shift at the auto repair, a favour Deacon had pulled in for him to supplement his part-time bar job. Neither of them were car experts, but Deacon had picked up some tips from an uncle when he was growing up and he'd passed on what he'd learned, enough for the both of them to get by in return for a modest hourly rate. Deacon had a handy second job setting up sound equipment at a few venues around town, tuning up guitars and the like, earning peanuts but making some useful contacts, and between the two of them, they were managing to pay the bills while they scored gigs. Music was the ultimate goal, so they didn't much care what other jobs they had to work as long as they were able to play - it would become their full-time job one day, if they just kept at it.

Vince reminded himself fervently of this belief while he got through the early shift at the auto repair, one that required him to drag his ass out of bed before he was even remotely ready to. He was very happy when the clock ticked over to 2pm and signalled freedom; he tossed an oily spanner into a pile of equally oily differently-sized spanners, wiped his hands on his overalls, and said goodbye to Chuck, the elderly guy who owned the place.

If he was any more in need of a bacon bagel with extra bacon and some dirty coffee, he would surely waste away. He climbed into his truck and headed for the diner near his and Deacon's house.; it was a hot day, and he could feel the sweat pooling on his upper lip as he drove, the broken a/c ironic considering he'd fixed three just that week on other people's vehicles. The diner was no better, it never was, but Sally, the hot cougar waitress who worked there, was sporting some impressive boob sweat so a little humidity was a blessing as far as Vince was concerned.

He was ordering his usual at the counter, a hotdog thrown in for luck, his eyes straying to Sally's cleavage whenever he could be sure she wasn't looking, when he heard a familiar laugh. A swivel of his stool confirmed it: Deacon was at one of the booths, his back to Vince, its other occupant shielded from view by his head. He was leaning forward across the formica table talking animatedly, peels of light laughter rippling from him, a far cry from his most frequented state of late: brooding, bordering on moody asshole.

Samantha had been glued to his side the whole damn week, much to Vince's chagrin - he wasn't her biggest fan, no offence to the girl - and he knew Deacon was feeling suffocated as a gnat under an asscheek. He also happened to know that Deacon, the very Deacon sitting not ten feet away from him, had said he was working his other job that day. Vince had been sitting right across from him at their kitchen breakfast bar when he'd told Samantha he had a long day and wouldn't be done until evening.

He hopped down from his stool, picked up his coffee and walked over to the booth. "Don't I know you from somewhere, sugar?" he said, tilting his head and tapping his chin with a finger. "You look an awful lot like my roommate, but that's just impossible now, ain't it, 'cause he's all the way across town workin' his pretty little ass off."

Deacon's guilty face was too much to take, and Vince chuckled, looking over at the person sitting opposite him.

"Hey Rayna, how's it goin', sweet thing?"

"Hi Vince," she said, an amused look on her face. She was pretty as hell, and twice as feisty. He was entirely unsurprised that Deacon was so bewitched by her; Rayna Jaymes was a recipe made up of all his weaknesses, many of which he hadn't even known he had until he met her. Vince winked at her.

"Busted, huh?" Deacon said. It was obvious he'd told Rayna of his recent imprisonment at the hands of Samantha, and Vince caught the inscrutable look that passed between them.

"Hey, a man's gotta eat." He slid in the booth and popped a tater tot from Deacon's plate into his mouth. "Ain't like you can fry up tots like these at home. What a _coincidence_ you ran into Rayna here."

Deacon chuckled, lighter than Vince had seen him in a good while. "Of all the places, right?"

"Want the rest of my waffles?" Rayna asked, pushing her plate across to Vince. "I'll burst if I eat another thing."

He rubbed his hands together, surveying the perfectly toasted pile of golden waffles she'd barely touched. "Don't mind if I do, doll. I'm famished." He nodded at the open notebook in the

middle of the table. "Y'all been writin'?"

"We got a week's worth of songs to catch up on, it's been a productive mornin'," Deacon said, straight-up beaming at Rayna.

God _damn_ this place did good waffles. Vince shoved two forkfuls into his mouth, one right after the other, and spoke around them, a dusting of icing sugar poofing into the air. "You gonna be able to bust outta the house anytime soon to play 'em? Either of y'all?"

"Your food's ready," Sally said, appearing at the table with a brown paper bag right as he was licking syrup off his fingers. "If you're not already full as an ox, that is."

Vince wiped his hands on his jeans and patted his stomach, rising to his feet. "Sally," he said, "I _am_ an ox."

She surveyed him with pursed lips, bubblegum-pink and impossibly glossy. "Can't argue with you there, Jameson."

She rolled her eyes at his wink but blushed all the same, and Vince shook his head as she walked away. "She'll marry me one day," he said, a little wistfully. "Alright y'all, this greasy, beautiful sustenance waits for no man. Gotta get my ass goin', back to the grind, the hard knock life."

"I thought you got off work for the day," Deacon said.

Vince blew an air kiss to Rayna. "Deac, buddy, sittin' on my ass watchin' Bad Boys is still work."

He waved them goodbye and headed for the door, the sound of their laughter and the hissing of the industrial coffee machines behind him. Humid air hit his face as he stepped out into the parking lot, the sweat of a Nashville summer intense, no option but to surrender to it.

"Hey man," Deacon called, and Vince turned around to see him jogging out into the lot. "Can you do me a favour and not mention this to Samantha? I don't want her to lock me up in the house, you know?"

Deacon Claybourne was the best buddy Vince had ever had, the best he ever _would_ have. He'd give a lung to the guy. Covering for him to spend time with a girl who made him smile so hard he might split his jaw? Easy.

He grinned. "Mention what?"

Deacon gave him a grateful nod and hurried back inside, and as Vince climbed into his truck and secured his paper bag on the seat next to him, he saw the two of them through the smeared windows, Deacon sliding back in the booth opposite Rayna, still smiling. She wriggled forward in her seat and propped her elbows on the table and he did the same, their notebook of songs between them, heads so close they were all but touching.

Vince smiled to himself and pulled out of the lot, and headed home to take a dump and a nap.

#

Deacon frequently hung out at the bar where Vince worked. It was a hole of a place in a run-down residential neighbourhood, the kind of bar that never really got busy but was always populated with a healthy smattering of loyal patrons. It was a good place to get to know some of Nashville's locals, and Deacon had made many a friend there.

His laid-back evenings chatting easily over a steady stream of - usually on-the-house, thanks to Vince - beers had been commandeered of late though, by none other than Samantha. To no one's surprise, she'd become a regular fixture at the bar since she'd decided to keep tabs on Deacon, and he'd earned some knowing looks from men older and wiser than he, their immediate recognition of his situation, without needing to know details, somewhat comforting, solidarity expressed through gruff nods and air-toasts when she wasn't looking.

Samantha's skirts were always short, her drinks always long, and she'd perfected the art of the barstool dismount in 3-inch heels. She stuck out like a sore thumb in the dingy surroundings but far from feeling uncomfortable, she seemed to enjoy the fact, and Deacon, despite his irritation, had to admit she had some balls.

"I'm goin' to the ladies' room," she announced, her pleather skirt cringing on the cheap vinyl as she stood up and sashayed away.

"You got the length of a nose-powder to breathe in the sweet smell of freedom, buddy," Vince told him, spinning an ice-cold bottle of Bud around and popping the top. He slid it across the counter to a guy in a trucker cap and picked up the dollar bills he tossed down in return. "Shot of hard stuff?"

Deacon nodded, watching him pour a generous double measure. "I'm startin' to feel like I got a parole officer."

"A parole officer would give you more space. This chick don't even let you take a piss in peace." Vince snorted and handed him the glass, pouring one for himself and lifting it in a toast. "As though she thinks Rayna's gonna climb in through the window or somethin'."

At the mention of Rayna, Deacon felt his stomach flip over. The two hours he'd managed to steal with her earlier in the week had been keeping him going ever since, and he'd been trying to work out when he could make his next escape. The song they'd started was still in need of a second verse - a solid reason to see her again, he kept telling himself. Work was work, right? He'd never get anywhere with his music if he didn't have great songs.

"There are _no_ other girls in this bar," Samantha said, startling him. "I swear I've been to the bathroom like five times and I've been the only one in there." She climbed back up onto her stool and frowned at Vince, as though he could enlighten her.

"Guess it smells a little too much like stale cabbage for many girls to wanna come here. It ain't exactly happy hour in my pants during these nightshifts, but it's one way to not get fired." He flipped a towel over his shoulder. "I can concentrate on pouring the perfect Cosmopolitan with no cleavage distractin' me."

Samantha rolled her eyes and looked around, visibly bored. A jukebox caught her attention and she mumbled something about changing the music, tottered off towards it and busied herself scrolling through the endless selection of songs.

Deacon sighed and propped his chin on his elbows. He wasn't going to figure his life out tonight, probably not tomorrow night either, so he opted instead for another shot.

"Deacon Claybourne?"

He hadn't noticed the man take the seat next to him, and when he looked up, he saw a face he didn't recognise sneering back at him. The man was stocky and middle-aged, dressed in a grey pinstripe suit that had clearly been tailored for him, polished cufflinks at his wrists and an ironed handkerchief in his pocket. His hair was combed over and gelled into place, and his eyes were cold, steely, and boring right into Deacon. He was, without question, not the sort to head to the neighbourhood dive bar after work.

"Who's askin'?" Deacon answered, immediately regretting his attitude.

"Lamar Wyatt," the man said, observing his reaction impassively. It was apparent that he had expected Deacon would be aware who he was, so he gave no further explanation, instead letting the sound of his name hang ominously between them.

Deacon sat up straight. "What… brings you here, sir?"

Lamar Wyatt disregarded his question and signalled to Vince with a lift of a manicured finger. "Bourbon," he demanded, and Vince nodded and swiftly filled a glass with the best one they had. He set it down before Lamar and shot Deacon a dark look, staying nearby and busily wiping some already-dry glasses.

"You've been spending time with my daughter," Lamar said, without bothering to look at Deacon. "Dabbling with _music, _so I hear."

There was no use in denying it, but Deacon wasn't sure how much Lamar knew, or where it was he'd 'heard' anything at all, so he kept quiet, figuring that was his best hope to cause minimal damage. Whatever Lamar's sources, he knew that Rayna had been sneaking around, and that she'd been doing so with Deacon, and - inexplicably - he'd known where in all of Nashville to find him. Whether he'd found out about everything - their gigs, that they were writing together - Deacon couldn't tell, but none of it was good. Not good at all.

"Are you going to answer me, boy, or are you just going to sit there looking like a hillbilly goldfish?"

Deacon closed his mouth quickly. "A little," he lied.

"A little," Lamar repeated, the corners of his lips turning up in a cruel smile. How sweet, soulful Rayna could possibly have come from this man was beyond Deacon - it seemed impossible. "Do not think you can take me for a fool." Lamar swivelled to look at him head-on. "I do not permit my daughter to waste her time with such useless hobbies as music, and she certainly will not be led astray by the likes of you."

"No one's leadin' her astray, Mr Wyatt, I can assure you of that. As for music, Rayna's a wonderful musician, I'm sure if you just see how talented she is-"

"My daughter is not a musician," he spat, "and you will stay away from her. You won't contact her again - you will cease to exist to her. If I was to hear anything to the contrary, know that I could make your life here very difficult, Deacon Claybourne. Very difficult indeed."

"Can I get you gentlemen another bourbon?" Vince asked, playing the friendly bartender in a valiant attempt to break the tension; Deacon silently thanked him for existing.

Lamar, on the other hand, raised his gaze slowly and deliberately, looked Vince in the eye, and spun his half-empty glass back across the bar towards him. "This," he said, drawing the word out, "is not bourbon." He stood, took an expensive leather wallet out of the inside pocket of his jacket, and pulled a crisp fifty out of it. "Buy yourself some taste," he snarled, and without another glance at either of them, he strode towards the door and walked out.

"Well fuck me," Vince breathed, staring after him. "So _that_ was Lamar Wyatt."

"Uh huh," Deacon said, eyes fixed on the same spot.

"Who was the rich dude?" Samantha asked, her heels clicking across the uneven concrete floor. They turned to look at her and she picked up her vodka soda, taking a noisy sip through her straw, oblivious to their lack of an answer. The sound of an Alabama song Deacon couldn't name flooded through the bar and she tapped her foot in time, happy with her jukebox choice. Vince looked at Deacon, his expression still wrought with shock.

"What?" Samantha said when she saw their faces, and then something akin to realisation dawned on her. "Oh," she said, drawing the word out sagely, "y'all don't like the song, do you?"

#

Rayna had called him three times.

Once in a morning, when she'd known Samantha would be at her nail salon job in one of the malls on the edge of town. He'd stood in the kitchen watching the phone as it rang, willing himself to stop wanting to pick it up.

Once during a stormy afternoon when half of Nashville had been stuck in their homes. Vince had answered, and Deacon's chest had felt like it might cave in as he'd heard the faint sound of her muffled voice on the other end. "Deac isn't home, doll," Vince had said, looking him in the eye as he'd lied.

The third call had been one evening, and he'd picked it up himself that time. He'd put the receiver to his ear without speaking, distracted by the shitty movie Vince and Samantha were watching.

"Um, is Deacon there?" she'd asked, and his whole body had thrummed at the sound of her voice. She'd sounded unsure of herself, confused, and he'd had no idea what to do, so he'd hung up, and cursed himself bitterly, unable to take his hand off the phone in its cradle.

"Wrong number," he'd said by way of explanation, and only Vince had looked up at him.

It wasn't for his sake that he was avoiding Rayna. Lamar's threat was a real one, he had no doubt, but it could never be enough to scare him away from her. It was Rayna he was worried about. He was sure she had no idea Lamar had found her out, much less anything of his ominous warning at the bar, and his chest ached painfully keeping it from her, staying away and undoubtedly causing her to wonder why. He found himself wracked with grief, wanting nothing more than to go to her and tell her what had happened.

But he couldn't. Lamar was watching, and one wrong move might keep her from her music entirely. Better she lose Deacon and keep her freedom, and still be able to write and play, than lose all of it. It hurt every shred of him to think it meant he couldn't be in her life though, that he would have to give her up so she could keep herself. Watty would find her another guitar player, she'd write Deacon off as an asshole who ditched her - hell, maybe she'd even get some songs out of it.

He hadn't known it was possible to feel physical pain from sadness. People talked about broken hearts, and he felt like he finally understood what they meant; he was sure his had splintered into sharp pieces that were ripping him apart from the inside out. It hit him all over again every few minutes and took his breath away, and somehow there was no way for him to go back to the way his life had been before Rayna. It was as though she'd brought colour to everything, put warm hands on all the numb, ruined parts of him, and it didn't mean anything anymore, not without her.

"You gonna eat that?"

Deacon lifted his head. The Mexican place his sister had dragged him to was busy, brashly decorated, tainted with the pungent smell of bleach. She was pointing at his plate, and he shook his head and watched her tuck in.

"You've barely touched this stuff," Beverly said, half a taco disappearing in one bite. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothin'."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Girl trouble?"

"No," he scowled, "just leave it, Bev." He pushed the plate all the way towards her and she shrugged, picked up her bottle of beer and tipped it towards him.

"You better not have broken up with Samantha. I like her."

"Of course you do."

"What? She's fun. Anyway I thought things were good, you seemed practically _perky_ the last time I saw you."

The last time he'd seen Beverly was the morning after a long writing session with Rayna on his couch. They'd gotten four songs out of it and two hours' sleep, and he'd been so high on the feeling he'd all but skipped into Beverly's crappy apartment.

The knife struck at his chest again.

"Things are fine. And Samantha ain't my girlfriend."

Beverly loaded a spoonful of slimy guacamole onto a nacho; a string of cold cheese followed it as she lifted it to her mouth and she pulled at it until it snapped. "You've sure kept her around longer than most of the other girls."

"That don't mean nothin'."

"What's gotten into you? Aren't you usually the optimistic one out of the two of us?"

"Ain't exactly difficult." He shook his head, picking up his beer and choking down a slug. "Life's just so damn unfair, Bev."

She scoffed. "You're just now figurin' that out? After all you and me have been through?"

"No," he said, looking down at the cracked plastic tablecloth. "It's just, when you see how things _could_ be, when you… feel like life might not be so damn hopeless after all, and then it goes and shows you that it's even more so, 'cause at least you were in the dark before. You didn't know how good it could be, so you couldn't miss that." He stopped himself, huffing out a breath to dislodge the lump that had risen in his throat.

His sister was quiet for a moment; he could feel her watching him. She put her fork down and rested her hands on the table, and he braced himself for a yelling.

"This isn't about Samantha at all, is it?" she said, almost gently, to his surprise. "It's that girl you were writin' songs with. You _did_ fall for her. What's her name, Rayann?"

"Rayna."

"_Rayna_! That's it, isn't it?"

"I don't wanna talk about it, Beverly."

She sat back in her chair, satisfied she'd cracked it. "She break your heart? Hey, at least you know you have one. It's usually you doin' the breakin'." He gave her a look, one that said she needed to stop, but she never did listen. "What happened? She find some country club boyfriend she didn't have to sneak around with?"

"Beverly," he warned, and her eyes flashed with the challenge. She'd only met Rayna once, but it had been enough for her to make a swift judgement and label her a spoilt little rich girl, fucking about with the street kids to rebel against a probably overbearing family.

"She decide you were a stone's throw too far over the wrong side of the tracks for her? I told you she was trouble, Deacon, I said it from the minute you met her. Her sort always are."

"'Her sort'? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means. What do you think she was doin' hangin' around with the likes of you, huh? She pissed off her Daddy and made her point, and now you're here with the appetite of a fruit fly, lookin' like you just been slapped upside the head."

He'd heard enough. Hands shaking with rage, he threw some notes down to cover both their meals and stormed out of the restaurant, ignoring Beverly calling after him.

/

"Hey babe," Samantha purred at him the instant he opened the door.

He closed his eyes for a second, the energy to deal with her just not in him, and turned his key in the lock a little too forcefully. "Hey," he made himself say.

"You okay?"

He nodded, wishing he could just have some damn time to himself, but she bounded over to him and planted a kiss on his lips.

"Some girlfriends of mine are having a party tonight, over by Belmont in a really cute house. I said we'd be there in an hour, so you should probably get changed - I'm wearing this, it's new."

She twirled around, her dress indistinguishable to him from the hundred others she had in the same style, and he clenched his jaw and tried with all his might to find words that weren't "Fuck this".

"I can't," he said, and at her perplexed look he stepped past her into the room. "I'm not feelin' so good."

"Oh, babe," she cooed, sitting beside him on the couch. "I'll stay here with you, we can snuggle up right here and watch some movies, get some ice cream."

"No, you go," he insisted, "I would hate for you to miss a party, and I'm just gonna go to bed. You'd be bored, there's no sense in that."

For a horrifying moment, Deacon was sure Samantha was going to insist on staying home with him anyway. He could see the cogs turning in her head as she weighed up the two options - staying home with a 'sick' Deacon would mean no sex, which would have swung things considerably, but going to a party all the way across town without him would give him free rein for the night.

He rubbed his temples strategically, the irony not lost on him that he hadn't realised his head really was pounding, and pulled his best miserable face, not exactly a stretch for him in his present state of mind. It clinched the deal: Samantha gave a little shrug, pulled a sympathetic face, and rubbed a hand over his forehead.

"I would _hate_ not to show up when I said I'd be there, you know how I just hate that." She stood up. "I'm gonna go put some make-up on."

A half-hour later and she was still in the bathroom. Deacon was desperate to pee and hadn't dared move from his spot on the couch for fear of his bladder letting loose. He'd stared at some peeling paint on the opposite wall for so long it had started to morph into a face, and if he heard Samantha sing one more unidentifiable song - out-of-tune - to herself through the bathroom door, he'd jump out of a window. She eventually emerged and headed straight for his bedroom, where mysterious amounts of her personal items had appeared: clothes in drawers, jewellery strewn on every surface, hair-styling instruments plugged into every socket.

He shot into the bathroom and peed for all he was worth, and when he came out she was standing in front of the door with an odd look on her face.

"All okay?" he asked.

"Oh Deacon," she said, "I had no idea you felt these things, I mean not _this_ much. When did you write this?"

He frowned, not quite catching up to what she meant, until he saw what was in her hands. She waved it in front of him, and cold horror washed over Deacon. A napkin, his own handwriting scrawled on it.

_Sitting here tonight…_

The little bluebird at the top.

The ring-stain from the beer he'd been drinking while he'd watched her.

The song he'd written the night he'd met Rayna. Minutes, it had taken him. Minutes to fall irrevocably in love with her.

It hit him like a tonne of bricks and he lost his breath; he'd lost her, he'd found her against every odd he would ever bet on and he'd fucking lost her. A handful of minutes knowing she existed and he'd written her a song confessing his overpowering desire to give his whole life to her, and now she was gone.

"Babe?" he heard Samantha say. She was probably frowning, creasing her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. "Oh," she cooed, "was this supposed to be a surprise? I've ruined it, haven't I?"

He wasn't sure what he mumbled in answer, but half an hour later she was heading out of the door and telling him she'd be back late, not to wait up for her, that she might even stay over at Courtney's or Stacey's or Brittany's or whatever the hell her friend's name was. "She _does_ make really good pina coladas!" he vaguely registered her saying, but he was too busy clutching his napkin on the couch to really listen. The irony that finding a song he'd written for another girl had given her the reassurance to leave him alone overnight.

The door finally closed, and by the time the sound of her shoes had receded, Deacon had made a decision.

/

Traffic was heavy. The drive took him almost an hour, but it meant night had fallen by the time he got to the right neighbourhood, an accidental stroke of luck; he needed to be as inconspicuous as possible, and he knew he couldn't drive his truck all the way there, so he parked in a gas station and walked the last half a mile.

It was only when he saw the house in the distance that he realised he had absolutely no clue what the hell his plan was. He scanned the street: not a soul about, but then there were only a handful of houses in sight, sprawling and sparse as they were. The white one with the pillars was in darkness, and he wondered whether anyone was even home. Trees and neatly manicured bushes lined the vast plot of land the house sat on, and he stuck to the perimeter in their shadows.

Feeling like a criminal and absolutely sure he would be arrested and thrown in jail if he was caught, he skirted the house as quickly as he could and made his way around to the back. It was a stupid idea, maybe one of the dumbest he'd ever had - and that was really saying something - but he had to see her. He'd sat on the edge of his couch with that napkin in his hand, running through his options, the thought of Rayna sending him near-crazy, and as far as he'd seen it, getting in his truck and putting his foot down all the way to the rich part of town had been the only thing to do.

Calling her just hadn't seemed like enough, and her line wasn't a private one - if Tandy or her father had answered, he'd have been done for, and so would she. In hindsight, he thought as he snuck into the backyard and saw lights on in several rooms at the back of the house, he could have just pretended to have got the wrong number, or hung the damn phone up.

"You're a fuckin' idiot, Claybourne," he muttered. "A real prize ass."

And then he saw her silhouette move past the window. All question of whether he was stepping way past the point of sanity fled his mind, and he willed her to come closer, eager for her to but terrified she might see a shadow staring up at her and scream the place down before she could realise it was him. He stared up at her, heart thumping wildly.

She turned around, and he froze on the spot as she reached up to close the curtains. He didn't know what to do - once they were drawn she wouldn't be able to see him, and his trespassing expedition would be a bust. The longing for her ramped up to unbearable levels, and he panicked, watching as she was obscured from view.

It was only when she stepped in front of the adjacent window that he saw her face. She looked sad, defeated. Her shoulders were hunched, her movements lackluster, and as she reached up for the next curtain and tugged on it, Deacon's chest ached so acutely he could barely catch his breath.

It was his fault - he'd done this to her, and the worst part of all was that it was the last thing he wanted to do, and she obviously didn't know that. The heavy material eclipsed the window and she was gone from his sight, just another barrier between them.

He scanned the garden, hoping for some inspiration that would help him get her attention, and his eyes landed on a sculpted rosebush. Underneath it, neatly arranged and glowing white enough to be visible, were small decorative rocks. Feeling like he was in a cliched romcom, Deacon picked a handful up.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, and looked around again for one more safety check.

He shook his head, limbered up his arms, and hurled a rock up at Rayna's window.

It missed. He swore under his breath, watching it bounce off the wall next to the window and land on the grass below. If only he'd played football in high school instead of bunking off gym class to go play the guitars in the music room, he might have been a little better with his aim. He lined up his next shot, picturing the look he'd seen on her face, and tried again.

Score - the rock hit, not very hard, but it hit, and he waited. Nothing. No movement. He tried another, and missed again. The next hit above the glass but somehow grazed it on the way down, and still no sign of Rayna.

He needed to get closer, and as dangerous as it was to leave the cover of the trees, he inched out into the middle of the yard. The next shot hit his target with just the right amount of force, and he gave an internal cheer, trying not to make any noise. There was a rustling at the edge of a curtain and he saw a shadow, and then a sliver of her face. A second later the curtain was being yanked back and she was staring at him in shock.

"Ray!" he mouthed, waving his arms at her. She lifted a hand to the glass and pressed her fingers to it, and then to his dismay, disappeared.

He stared at the window, kicking himself for being so immeasurably stupid as to ignore her calls, to let her believe he'd abandoned her, to keep Samantha around, to listen to Lamar fucking Wyatt's threats. When she didn't return after a few minutes, he shoved his hands in his pockets, his entire body feeling the bitter disappointment, the regret. The loss of her.

"Deacon!"

His head snapped up; it was a faint whisper, and he couldn't make out where it was coming from. Renewed hope surged through him and he listened hard, silently urging her to call his name again.

"Over here!"

"Ray?" he hissed, and a shadow caught his eye. She was around the side of the house, back where he'd come from, and he had to force himself not to run towards her, moving as quietly as he could instead.

As he drew closer he saw her point somewhere through the trees, and she stepped into them; he followed, trying to distinguish in the darkness where she'd gone.

"Here," her disembodied whisper told him, "to your left." He took a couple of steps towards her, until he felt her take his hand.

She led him through a gap and down a slope, and the trees opened out into a clearing. When he looked behind him, the house was no longer visible and they were shielded from view of any others.

"What are you _doin'_ here?" she asked, incredulous, no longer whispering but quiet.

She was in a nightdress, from what he could tell in the light from a half-moon, sneakers on her feet. Her skin was pale, hair wild around her face, and he thought he might cry from the onslaught of feelings that rushed through him.

She stared at him expectantly, and as dark as it was, he didn't miss the frown on her face. She let go of his hand, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and repeated her question.

"Deacon, why are you here? Do you know what my father would do if he found you? Are you crazy?"

"I know," he said, Lamar's words from the bar hitting him all over again. "And yeah, maybe."

"So what the hell? You disappear into thin air and you show up two weeks later at my _house_, in the middle of the night? Daddy would never let me out of here again if he knew." She shook her head. "Is that what you want?"

"No, Rayna, no, that's exactly why I'm here."

"What are you talkin' about? Where have you been, Deacon?" She sounded hurt, small, and it hit him square in the chest.

"Your father, he came to see me. He told me to stay away from you."

"What?"

"He said he didn't want you makin' music, Ray. And he meant it, I ain't never seen someone so serious about somethin'."

She faltered, her arms dropping down by her sides, and for a moment the only sounds were the chirping of crickets and distant rustlings of animals in the bushes. "Came to see you where?"

"At the bar where Vince works. I don't know how he knew to find me there, but he did."

Rayna laughed, not at all amused. "Oh he always knows," she said.

"I didn't know what to do. I figured if I just stayed away he'd drop it, he wouldn't feel the need to keep tabs on you so much, and then you could still make music - at least you'd have music."

"I'd have music, but I wouldn't have you?" she asked, dismayed.

Deacon felt his throat constrict. "I couldn't ever forgive myself if he took away your music."

"He hates it. He hates that I love it. My mother loved it too, I think maybe that's why."

"You think it reminds him of her?"

"Maybe. I don't really know, but _I _want to be reminded of her." She dropped her voice back to a whisper. "It's like she never existed at all, not here, in this house. I think it might be the same for me too, for Daddy."

He looked at her for a long time. She stood motionless before him, her eyes exaggeratedly big in the dimness; she almost didn't look real. Belle Meade was at the furthest edge of the city - she could have been a figment of his imagination, an ethereal conjuring of the Tennessee wilderness.

"Come with me, Ray. I got somethin' I need you to hear."

/

He'd been driving for ten minutes before she asked where they were going. He had no idea, and he told her so - he hadn't thought that far ahead, he just wanted to find somewhere they could sit for a while. She looked out of the window in silence while he took them further away from her house, and when he eventually turned into a park and slowed, she unbuckled her seat belt.

"Here?"

Deacon looked around. There were a handful of people taking evening walks, a couple of dogs let off their leashes. They'd stopped on a small stone bridge, a river running underneath it, and he spotted a picnic table on one of its banks below. He shut off the engine.

"Here."

He grabbed his guitar and led Rayna to a wall that hid the bank almost entirely from view. They'd be safe from the eyes of Lamar's spies down there, he figured, and helped her over, acutely aware that she was still in her nightdress. It was pale pink, soft with thin straps, falling just below her knees, and he tried really hard not to think about how pretty she looked in it.

"You hurt me," she said, sitting on the edge of the table, her feet on the seat. She didn't look at him.

He sat down next to her. "I'm sorry, Ray. _God_ I'm sorry. I never wanted to do that, I just didn't want to make things even worse with your father."

"You made things worse in a different way. I thought you must've decided you didn't want anythin' to do with me. I've been goin' crazy tryin' to work out what I've done wrong."

"Ray," he said, his voice cracking, "you didn't do _anythin'_ wrong. You couldn't." He twisted his full body towards her but she still didn't look at him. "It's been killin' me bein' away from you, doin' that to you. God Rayna, I don't know what my life is without you in it - you've changed everythin'."

She picked at a loose chip of wood, resistant to his apology, and he knew he really had hurt her. "Why did you come to my house?"

Deacon let out a long breath. "I needed to play you a song."

She lifted her head and looked at him, but there was still no smile on her face, not even the ghost of one. He mentally pinned all of his hopes onto his song, no idea what he was doing, only that he had to do it. She needed to know how much she meant to him, and he didn't know how to express it in words, so music would have to save him, like it always had before. He hoped it could again.

"Somethin' you wrote?" Rayna asked.

He nodded. "The night I met you. I wrote it on a napkin, right after you'd finished singin'." Her eyebrows shot up at that, but she didn't say anything. "I wrote it for you."

"For me? But I didn't even come over to your table until the end of the night. How could you have written a song for me before you'd even spoken to me?"

Deacon smiled, his stomach flipping with nerves and the sweetness of her. To hell with it, he thought, to hell with all the consequences, he just needed her to hear, to know what she'd done to him, that no Lamar Wyatts or Samantha Beasleys stood a chance of keeping him away from her. He hadn't thought any of it through, what she might say, how she might react, he just knew it was the only thing that felt right. He picked up his guitar.

"I guess some things are just inevitable."

She looked at him for a long time, and he couldn't work out what she was thinking but she wasn't closing herself off from him, and that felt like a step in the right direction.

"Play it for me, Deacon."

He gave her a nod, cleared his throat, and jumped off a cliff.

She sat completely still as he sang, taking her eyes from his face only to watch his fingers on the strings, hanging on every word. His nerves disappeared for those three minutes; the only thing that mattered was her, there, next to him.

When he finished there was silence, the weight of the air between them fragile, Schroedinger's cat suspended in a bubble that could burst with the slightest movement. Everything in Deacon's life could change, one way or the other.

"You wrote that for me?" Rayna asked him. He nodded.

She climbed down off the table, and walked over to the edge of the water. Feeling like he might have screwed things up monumentally, Deacon followed, and stood beside her, waiting for her to say something.

A bird slid across the water in front of them, and he watched her eyes track it, her lips pressed together, the sticky heat of the night giving her skin a smooth sheen. He wanted to kiss her so badly it made his head spin.

"Let's make a promise," she said, "right here and now." She turned to him. "Nothing, no one, comes between us, Deacon. Not ever again. This, this is bigger than them. Than any of them."

She held out her hand, and he took it, overwhelmed with feeling. It was warm, delicate, the most reassuring hand he'd ever held. She didn't pull it back.

"I promise, Ray," he said. "Not ever."

For the first time that night she smiled, and instantly _his_ Rayna was back, the trust re-established between them. Deacon savoured every detail, the shape of her lips, the way her eyes warmed, her little laugh.

"Now play that song for me again, would you?"

#

Vince answered the early morning phonecall the next day, listening intently while he slathered butter on half-burnt toast. He didn't give away the caller's identity but Deacon knew by the look he shot over an oblivious Samantha's head: it was Rayna.

Her call was partly _for_ Vince, it turned out. Watty had been in touch and told her she'd been offered a gig - an opener, no pay involved, but it was at Exit/In, somewhere Deacon had wanted to play ever since he'd landed in Nashville. She'd need a band, Watty said, and Vince was thrilled to jump in.

"Leave it with me, doll," Deacon heard him say, the intrigue driving him crazy.

He called her back the moment Samantha left for work, and was late getting to the auto repair shop but he didn't care. He spent the rest of the morning fixing up a rusty truck one of their regulars brought in while he and Vince chatted about which of their buddies they'd get to join them, which of Rayna's songs they thought would suit the venue, how fucking cool it would be to play there.

Exit/In was a big deal, a respected venue for real music. It was an in, a door-opener, and there was a long way to go, Rayna was just starting out after all, but if she nailed it on the night it could be an important step in the right direction, according to Watty. They had to get it right, and Deacon knew it was the only thing they should be focusing on; they had a week and a half to get a band together, figure out a set-list, and bring everyone up to speed with Rayna's music.

The Samantha of it all would just have to wait.

"If you break up with her now," Vince told Deacon over a fast food lunch, "you will not hear the end of it, my man. She'll be up your ass so far she'll be able to feed you your own balls,"

"That's nice, Vinny, real nice."

"You keep that picture in your head, Claybourne. You wanna do this gig justice, for Rayna, for your own sake too, then you gotta keep Samantha sweet until after it."

He could still feel Rayna's hand in his as they'd stood at the water's edge. He'd been obsessively replaying how she'd let it stay there when he'd brushed her fingers, a small gesture, but unmistakably more than a friendly one, and it had felt huge. He should feel guilty, and worried about the threat of Lamar, but he just felt _happy_.

"You don't think that's just gonna make it worse?"

"Everybody knows everybody in this town, it gets messy when folks break up. Remember that girl Carly? Damn, she made mincemeat out of me when that shit ended, I couldn't go to a single bar on the East side for weeks."

"That's 'cause you slept with her sister, Vinny."

"My point exactly - messy." He gave a wag of his finger to punctuate his point, and stuffed some fries into his mouth. "Not so worried about Lamar Wyatt anymore, huh?"

Deacon took a bite of cheeseburger and chewed thoughtfully. "I'll deal with Lamar when I gotta deal with Lamar. One ass whoopin' at a time, hey?"

#

The week passed by in a blur.

Deacon told Samantha he was still feeling under the weather, and that he needed some alone time to rest and recover. She conceded with a startling lack of fight, and he had no idea if that meant she believed him or not.

In a monumental stroke of luck, Lamar was called out of town on business, giving them freedom to practise nightly, something they hadn't been quite sure how to pull off. It was thrilling, being able to spend time with Rayna again, being able to make music with her; Deacon had missed it every moment of their enforced separation. For the first time it seemed possible that they could really make music their lives, and everything about it felt entirely _right_. Woven in among the elation of sharing the songs they'd written together and those Rayna had written herself, there was a feeling pulsing in the air between them, something inevitable and imminent. He could taste it on his tongue, the anticipation of it.

Deacon and Vince had rallied some friends they'd been playing music with casually for a while, a couple of guys they'd met in a dive bar shortly after moving to Nashville, and they'd happily agreed to round out Rayna's band. Kennedy, who had a side job delivering pizza and siphoned them freebies on the sly, was enthusiastic and up for any adventure, and Jimmy, who had a garage they could practise in and was a killer musician. They'd witnessed more than a few of each other's girlfriends - and not-girlfriends - in the time they'd known each other, but for Deacon they'd never been anything more than flings. He knew his friends could tell straightaway that there was something between him and Rayna - at this point he was pretty sure everyone in a hundred-mile radius could tell he was besotted with her.

By the time they were a couple of days away from the gig, their set was pretty much ready. They had the songs down, Rayna was sounding amazing, and they were all managing to blend like they'd been playing together for years.

"I can't believe we've pulled this off in a week," Vince said one night when they'd packed everything away and settled into some camp chairs Jimmy had set up in the garage.

"Hey, we're not there _yet_," Rayna reminded him, leaning back in her chair and propping her feet up on a cooler.

Jimmy handed some ice cold beers around and switched on an old radio, flipping stations until he found something that suited. "Gonna be a hell of a night. Two more rehearsals and we'll be good to go, I got no doubts."

"I have no doubts either, you're all blowin' my mind with how quickly you've picked these songs up, every single one of them," Rayna said, but Deacon could tell she was trying to work through something in her head. "You know though, I feel like there's just a little somethin' missin'." She looked at him thoughtfully and he saw it dawn on her, the little smile that bloomed on her face, the subtle breath she took that only he saw. "There's another song I want to add."

"You thought of a cover you wanna throw in?" Kennedy asked.

"No," she replied, still looking at Deacon, "not a cover." He watched her smile broaden and she motioned to his guitar. "If you want to," she told him quietly, knowing he understood exactly what she meant.

"Really? You'd wanna add it?"

She nodded. His song, for her; her first gig that could set her up and she wanted to sing his song.

"Wanna run it through?"

He picked up his guitar, not a second of hesitation necessary, and Rayna leaned forward in her chair. As he started to play, they locked eyes, and their bandmates fell to a hush and listened.

"Sitting here tonight…" Deacon sang, and she joined him on the chorus and took on the second verse. He had to catch his breath when he heard his lyrics in her sweet voice; he'd sung it for her only twice that night by the river, and somehow she knew every word. Singing it _with_ her was infinitely more special than he could have imagined; they hadn't practised it, and he couldn't believe how they knew where to harmonise with each other, which parts to take the lead on.

When they finished, they were met with an outpouring of approval, everyone in agreement that the song should be added to their set.

"Did y'all write that?" Kennedy asked.

"Deacon did," Rayna told him, but she couldn't take her eyes off Deacon, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't stop looking at her either. When he finally did tear his eyes away, he caught Vince smirking knowingly, well aware who the song was about, and he cleared his throat and tried to re-direct his eyes to study the contents of his beer can instead.

"That's a beauty, man," Jimmy said, "really somethin'. And I can't think of anyone better suited to it than you two, you really pull that off."

Vince picked up his guitar before Deacon could combust into a heap, and gave it a quick tune. "Let's give it a go, shall we?"

#

The night of the show was a hot, sweaty one. Lamar was back in town and Deacon had concocted an elaborate escape plan for Rayna, who changed in the backseat of his truck as they sped down the highway. It took all of his might not to look in the rearview mirror, and as he pulled onto a smaller road, she climbed over the seat and slid in beside him.

"Feelin' ready?" he asked, looking over her in appreciation. She'd put on a white dress that he was sure he'd never forget, just low-cut enough to be sexy but loose-fitting enough to merely hint at how curvy she was, cut to her mid-thigh and fringed at the bottom.

She reached behind her and grabbed a pair of brown cowboy boots, her trusty favourites, and he struggled to keep his eyes on the road as she pulled them on. Her legs were smooth and sort of shiny, and he wondered how on earth she got them that way - what girl-stuff gave that perfect sheen? Some kind of lotion, maybe?

"Ready as I'll ever be," she replied, and judging by the amused look on her face he knew he'd been caught staring. He snickered, sheepish.

"You're gonna be amazin', Ray," he said, and she took a deep breath, clearly nervous.

"_We're_ gonna be amazin'," she amended, and she reached over towards him. For a brief moment she took his hand, and he squeezed her fingers, the already-restless butterflies in his stomach shooting into overdrive.

When he pulled up in the parking lot behind Exit/In, the two of them sat for a minute without speaking, soaking it all in, and only when their breathing fogged up the windows did they chuckle and jump out of the truck.

Their bandmates were waiting for them inside, and they were shown into a drafty room with worn floorboards by one of the crew dotted around setting up. They ran through their set list, warmed up their voices, and tuned their guitars, filled with excitement and disbelief that they were about to perform in such a venue.

Watty arrived a little later, and Deacon's stomach flipped seeing him walk in the door. The last time he'd seen Watty White was that fateful night at The Bluebird, and he'd had no idea then how much he'd come to owe the guy. He had a very strong feeling he'd still seen only the tip of that particular iceberg, and it made his palms sweat.

"Hi Mr White," he said, trying to sound as respectable as he could, shaking Watty's outstretched hand.

"Deacon," Watty said, warm and friendly, "good to see you again."

Deacon caught Rayna's eye as Vince made the introductions to the rest of their band, and he wondered if Watty knew, if he could sense Deacon was having some decidedly forbidden thoughts about Rayna. He wondered if Watty would be so nice to him if he knew, and if he didn't already, he surely would once they got on stage. It would be the first time Watty would see them sing together, and it made his nerves hit the roof.

"It looks like you've got a great group together here, Rayna," Watty said. "Tonight's going to be an important one. Give it your best out there."

Rayna pursed her lips together and looked at Deacon briefly. He nodded at her, and she gave Watty a big smile. "We will," she told him, steady and determined, and Deacon knew she meant it.

By the time they were called to the stage, the adrenaline zipping around the room was at fever pitch, and Watty wished them luck one last time and disappeared.

Deacon held his hand out to Rayna. "Here we go."

"We got this," she said, and took it. They walked down the narrow, dark corridor, and out through a door that looked like a fire exit; it led to a set of steep steps, and as they climbed them, the air grew sweatier, the cumulative clamor from the crowd engulfing them.

The compere bellowed Rayna's name to introduce them; Deacon threw his guitar strap over his head and they stepped out onto the stage, the lights bright, the room a sea of indistinguishable faces. Rayna stepped up to the mic and they played the opening notes of one of the first songs she'd shared with Deacon, a track called Already Gone.

As he started to settle into the song, Rayna next to him, his heart beating fiercely, he dared to look out into the audience for the first time. And immediately wished he hadn't.

There in the front row, arms folded over her chest, lips in a tight, furious line, was Samantha.

/

Rayna thankfully hadn't noticed her, or that anything was bothering Deacon. She sang her heart out next to him, gifting him with smiles so big his breath caught, and he found himself entirely lost in her. Something just happened when they sang together, and he was sure he'd never find words adequate enough to describe it. Everything else faded away - everything but Rayna.

With each song, the audience clapped harder, chatted over their drinks less, focused more, and they played harder than they had in their lives. The notion that they'd only had a week to rehearse - and for Rayna to even meet half of her now-band - struck him somewhere in the middle of an upbeat, pure country song they were belting out, and he almost laughed at the magic of it all.

Somewhere in the middle of their set he made accidental eye contact with Samantha, and she stared back at him stonily, arms folded across her chest. She was standing stock-still in a sea of people dancing and jostling, and damn him if he'd ever seen a more pissed off girl in his life. He knew the situation was not a good one, but it was pretty obvious she was not there to support his gig.

Before Deacon could quite process everything, somehow Rayna was already introducing their last song, thanking everyone for listening, telling them she hoped they enjoyed the headline act. It felt too fast, too unbelievable a high to bid goodnight to, and he could tell she felt the same.

"This one's called A Life That's Good," she said, and Deacon took a deep breath. There was no way he could avoid screwing Samantha over, it was too late for any notion of breaking up with her in a way that she didn't get hurt.

He started to play, and for the first couple of bars he couldn't look at Rayna, or at Samantha. He couldn't help himself though, and as he stepped closer to his mic to sing the first verse, he turned his head towards Rayna and all was done for. She joined him with her sweet harmonies and they launched into the chorus together, too far down whatever path they were on to conceive of turning back.

By the time Rayna was singing the next verse, Deacon had forgotten all about Samantha Beasley.

And then it was over. Their first gig in a real music venue, with a real band, watched by a crowd not distracted by pool tables and bar fights. Their applause mingled with cheers and they waved their goodbyes, and left the stage and then somehow Rayna was in his arms, his guitar slid to the side as he hugged her at the bottom of the stairs, their bandmates patting him on the back, high-fiving each other.

When he pulled back, Rayna was pink-cheeked, grinning up at him, flushed with adrenaline and relief and the most beautiful thing he'd seen in his entire fucking life. His eyes dropped to her lips, his arm stayed around her waist, and the chaotic din around them blurred until it was nothing.

"That was _somethin'_!" came Watty White's smooth drawl, breaking the suspension of the moment.

Rayna stepped back, eyes still on Deacon for another few seconds that he held onto with all his might, and then she was gone, hugging Watty, swept up by the band, embraced and high-fived and congratulated.

He let himself be caught up in the celebration too and they migrated backstage, and only when he registered Vince's panic-face did he turn and look in the direction it was aimed. Samantha, sour as a week-old lemon, right there in the backstage corridor.

Out of the corner of his eye Deacon saw Rayna's surprise, and on his other side, Vince murmured under his breath, "Oh you are so fucked."

He looked around at the group, who had fallen quiet and were watching with apprehension, and took a tentative step towards Samantha, like she was a cat about to pounce at him with her claws out. "Uh, hey," he said. "How'd you…"

"Find out you were playin' here tonight? One of the bartenders is a friend of a friend. Everyone knows everyone in this town, you haven't figured that out yet? You just can't keep secrets in Nashville."

Lost for words, he nodded, desperate for her to yell at him and get it over with.

"I'm just gonna thank the manager," Watty said, giving Deacon a brief smile that said he knew exactly what the situation was. He was too much of a gentleman, presumably with far too many times around the block himself, to add to the awkwardness. He gave a wave to the band, squeezed Rayna's shoulder and told her again how proud he was of her, and headed back into the venue.

"So," Samantha continued when the door closed and cut off the noise on the other side, "you feelin' all better, babe?"

It was painfully, painfully apparent that Samantha did not believe, in any way, that Deacon had been sick. It was also painfully apparent that she was ten kinds of pissed at him, and was about to let rip.

He decided it best not to answer her question, rhetorical as it was anyway, and reached for her elbow to gently steer her away from the others. "We need to talk," he said.

"You're damn right we need to talk." She stood her ground for just a second before relenting and letting him lead her a few steps down the corridor, but the exit was on Samantha's other side, Rayna and the band stuck between them and a dead end. When he looked back at them he could see they were trying their best to appear like they weren't listening, but there really wasn't a whole lot else they could do.

He braced himself. "Listen, Samantha…"

"Who is that song about, Deacon?" she asked, cutting straight to the chase. "The one I found in your bedside drawer. The one you just sang with another girl while you made goo goo eyes at her. Who did you write that song about?" He stared at the ground, and she huffed, shaking her head at him. "_When_ did you write it?" she tried instead.

Feeling like he was being led to the gallows, Deacon lifted his eyes to look at her. "A couple of months ago."

"And when did you meet Rayna?"

"A couple of months ago."

Samantha scoffed, but she seemed as sad as she was angry, and he felt terrible. "You write a song like that about a girl you don't know, while you can't even call your girlfriend your girlfriend?"

He probably could have avoided any escalation of the situation, and ended things as cleanly as possible, if only he hadn't made a grave mistake. He looked at Rayna, right at her, a few feet away, most definitely in earshot. Samantha saw him look, and he knew that all the answers she was hoping she wouldn't find were right there on his face. Rayna bit her lip and stared at the ground, evidently wishing it would open up and swallow her, and Samantha, agape at his audacity, huffed in disbelief.

"You better decide, Deacon, you better decide right now. Is this it, is it over?"

He wished he'd gone to her house and broken up with her where she could have had some privacy, he really wished he'd done it as soon as he'd known it was inevitable she'd get hurt, and he really _really_ wished she didn't look like she was about to cry.

"Yeah," he said, as gently as he possibly could, "it is over. I'm sorry as hell, Samantha. It's completely my fault, I really didn't mean for you to get hurt."

As quickly as they'd started, the tears disappeared. "You're an asshole, Deacon Claybourne. A really _huge_ asshole," she hissed, and slapped him. Hard. As his head spun, the force of it knocking his jaw numb, Samantha brushed her skirt down and straightened up, dabbed at the corners of her eyes, and turned in Rayna's direction. "He's all yours, sweetheart," she called. "But then he has been all along, hasn't he?"

And with a snarky flick of a sculpted eyebrow, Samantha Beasley strutted for the door and was gone.

There was a moment's pause while they all stared after her, until Vince's low whistle broke it.

"Damn," he said.

Deacon dropped his head back against the wall and groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them, his friends were huddled around, inspecting his red cheek and making impressed faces. Rayna hung back, and he didn't dare to make eye contact with her, fearful that she might've been scared off.

"She did some damage," Vince said, impressed. "I think we're gonna need to medicate you with some shots."

"Coulda messed your pretty-boy face all up," Jimmy told him, slapping Deacon on the arm a little too hard.

He humoured them, but his focus was on Rayna, and when she still didn't move, he pushed himself upright and cleared his throat. "Mind givin' us a minute here, fellas?"

The penny dropped quickly and they scooted out, leaving Deacon looking over at Rayna apprehensively. She took a couple of steps forward and he did the same, meeting her in the middle, and watched her take in his battle wound.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "Your cheek is pretty red."

"Yeah, well, I deserved that."

Rayna tilted her head. "You didn't do anythin' wrong."

Damn him to hell, but he really wanted to kiss her. It was an urge that came over him so strongly every time he was with her that he was astounded he hadn't given into it yet. He swallowed the thought down guiltily. "No," he said, staring at her lips and feeling the fingers of irony pointing right at him, "but I wanted to."

The second it came out of his mouth he worried he'd said too much, but it was a little late for holding back now anyway, and Rayna didn't look at all fazed. A moment of understanding passed between them, everything that was hidden between the lines received loud and clear, and Deacon felt a thrill run all the way through his body when she looked at the floor and tried to hide a blush.

"Wanna go get a drink?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, "I really do."

They found their friends just as the main act was taking to the stage, predictably by the bar at the back of the crowd. They'd found some stools and motioned toward one they were keeping free for Rayna, who climbed up onto it, Deacon moving to stand beside her. She cheered as the band kicked off their opening song, and he found it impossible to take his eyes off her, wanting to capture every moment of her joy. She caught him, but instead of looking away he grinned at her, the music loud, pumping through him, adrenaline making his fingertips tingle, and she bumped him with her shoulder.

The only question now was _when_ it would happen, no longer _if_; maybe it was never a question of _if_ at all. They were teetering rapidly closer, and the rush of it all made Deacon feel daring, more alive than he'd ever felt before.

Vince handed him two shots of tequila and leaned in, as though anyone would hear over the music anyway. "Kiss her, you fool," he said, and mimed downing the drinks. "Little bit of Dutch courage for ya."

"I got a handprint on my face from another girl, I don't think that'd go down too well, Vinny."

"Oh I think it would," Vince replied, winking and giving a little gyration of his hips.

Deacon laughed, stepping back towards Rayna and handing her the shot. She clinked his glass in a toast and he moved his mouth to her ear. "To you, and this night," he said. "You were amazin', Ray. You _are_ amazin'"

"To _us_," she said instead. "I won't ever forget this night, Deacon." She locked eyes with him as she threw the tequila back, the face she pulled downright adorable.

Maybe it was the alcohol, the Dutch courage kicking in after all, or maybe it was the way she swayed in time to the beat of the music, but he moved closer and slid his arm around her shoulder, and all but lost his mind when she looked up at him, smiled, and threaded her fingers right through his.

They stayed that way for the band's whole set, to Deacon's absolute fucking delight. He barely heard a word, so focused he was on the way it felt to hold her, to feel her move against him. When the band finally finished up and people drifted for the doors, their fingers were so tightly tangled together it felt unnatural to separate them.

Their group reluctantly left the venue and wished each other goodnight, and Deacon floated all the way to his truck, opening the door for Rayna to hop in. The drive to Belle Meade felt like it took all of thirty seconds, their conversation easy, Rayna yawning here and there, tired from the elation of their night.

"Hey Ray," he said as he pulled up outside her house, careful to stay just behind the tree line where they were shielded from view, and cut the engine, "are you doin' anythin' Friday night?"

"I have a very excitin' schedule of homework and avoidin' Daddy," she teased. "So no, not a thing. Why do you ask?"

"Wanna come to a party with me?"

#

He picked her up at the spot that had become their usual meeting place, the gas station closest to her house. The sun was setting and she jogged towards him in the golden light, in a little plaid skirt he hadn't seen her wear before, her favourite brown cowboy boots on her feet. The sight of her filled him with a simultaneous rush of butterflies and deep, reassuring familiarity.

They drove across town in the direction of his place, turning off a few streets away, and Deacon slowed, scanning the curbside for a spot to park. There were a lot of cars, unsurprisingly - Stewart Osborne's parties were legendary. There was an old disused Wendy's around the back of his house, and Deacon tucked the truck into its parking lot, figuring it would be safe there for the next few hours.

"Here we are." He grabbed a couple of six packs of beer from behind his seat and hurried around to Rayna's door to open it for her; she jumped down, looking around. He could tell she was nervous. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said, but she screwed up her face. "I've never been to a party before. I mean, not a real one - those things at the Country Club that Daddy makes me and Tandy go to _really_ don't count."

Deacon laughed. "I can promise you this party will be a whole lot better than anythin' at the Country Club. Stewart throws a lot of 'em, every time his parents are out of town, it's always a fun time. Not in, you know, a crazy way, just good-natured fun."

Rayna glanced at the house; they could see into the yard from where they stood, and there were gaggles of partygoers sitting on the porch, a few in lawnchairs in the yard chatting and sipping from red cups. "Do you know all those people?"

"Some of 'em, not all. Stewart knows some good people though - hell I think half of 'em are his cousins." She wasn't entirely reassured, he could tell, so he leaned against the car, not wanting to rush her inside. "Everyone's always real nice at these things - it's a lot of musicians and people who live around this neighbourhood, a lot of 'em know each other but a lot don't, it won't be like walkin' into the middle of somebody's Thanksgiving dinner. Mostly people sit around and shoot the breeze, maybe play a little guitar, do a little singin', that kinda thing, and it's a more-the-merrier kinda deal: everyone's welcome. You'll fit right in, Ray - you're good people too."

She laughed, and he felt her relax. "I am?"

"You're the best of the good people," he said, beaming at her. "And besides, you don't need to be nervous - you're with me."

She gave him an adorable smile, and excitement surged through him at the prospect of taking her into a party, his friends getting to meet her, being the guy lucky enough to be there with her. It wasn't a date, exactly - neither of them had called it that, and that just wasn't who they were, anyway; they were hanging out, but it sure felt like things had shifted.

"Let's go in," Rayna said. Deacon picked up the beers and held his out arm to her, and she linked hers into it as they walked towards the house.

The party was in full swing, people in every room, different strains of music drifting into one. Deacon led Rayna to the kitchen and set the drinks down, pulling out a couple of bottles and twisting off the tops. He handed one to her and she clinked his in a toast, taking a sip.

"About damn time y'all got here," Vince called out, appearing in the doorway and gathering them both into a bear hug. "I thought you'd gotten lost." He winked at Deacon. "Or distracted."

"What the hell are you drinkin'?" Deacon asked, peering into his cup. "It smells like perfume."

"This is a Sex on the Beach, Deac - you're so uncultured."

"A Sex on the Beach?" Rayna chuckled. "Isn't that a girly drink?"

"It sure is, Miss Rayna, I intend on gettin' in touch with my feminine side tonight." He eyeballed a girl walking past at that very moment in cut-off shorts, and Rayna snorted, much to Vince's amusement.

"If it ain't Claybourne - I ain't seen you in weeks, dude, where you been?" Stewart Osborne, a rake of a guy with round, gold-rimmed Grandpa glasses only he could pull off and a mop of strawberry-blond hair, came up behind Deacon and clapped him warmly on the shoulder.

"Hey man," he said, "good to see you."

"You too, buddy. Real good." He looked from Deacon to Rayna, and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, _this_ is where you been - that explains it all."

"Ah, Stewart this is Rayna, Rayna - Stewart," he said, feeling his cheeks get a little hot. Stewart took off an imaginary hat and dipped his head at her, and she laughed.

"Pleasure to meet you, Rayna," he said. "So you're Deacon's new girlfriend, huh?"

"Oh…" Rayna said, and Deacon's beer suddenly felt slippery in his hand.

"Uh, Rayna's my… ahm," he tried, and out of the corner of his eye he clocked Vince thoroughly enjoying the exchange.

"We play music together," Rayna finished.

Deacon nodded. "We play music together. So… we do that."

Stewart looked between them again. "Right. You do that." He sniggered. "I think y'all need another drink."

Kennedy and Jimmy found them when they were a second beer in, Jimmy's girlfriend Jenny and Kennedy's roommate Greg with them, and they congregated around the kitchen island, picking at the bags of chips dotted in between bottles and punch bowls filled with suspiciously-coloured drinks. Rayna lingered close to Deacon, chatting easily with everyone, and he let himself relax more than he remembered doing in a long time, enjoying having her near and being surrounded by good friends.

They moved into one of the other rooms and found a couch to squash onto, and Stewart, who was forever getting himself into comedic scrapes, regaled them with a story about a run-in with an escaped chicken that had landed him in the ER the week before. Rayna laughed with abandon and Deacon, sitting between her and Kennedy, noticed Greg checking her out appreciatively. She wasn't paying any attention, but he couldn't stop himself leaning in just a little closer, enough to send out a subtle guy-signal that she was already spoken for.

"Is Stewart serious about the chicken thing?" she asked him, twisting around to whisper it, and her face was so close to his he could smell the sweet punch on her breath. Cherries, maybe some watermelon.

"Oh yeah," he replied, and they shared a snigger, Rayna's eyes wide. "You wait 'til he starts talkin' about the old lady at the grocery store - that one always comes out at parties."

Another punch and several stories later, and Rayna got up and handed Deacon her cup. "Can you look after this for me? Excuse me for a second," she said, and headed towards the bathroom.

Deacon watched her go, oblivious to everyone else until Stewart plopped down beside him.

"So you're makin' music with her," he said.

"Yup."

"You're also bangin' her like crazy, right?"

Deacon choked on his beer. "It's not like that."

"Oh? Sure _looks_ like that."

The rest of their friends turned around to get in on the conversation and Deacon squirmed uncomfortably. "She's my friend."

"Yeah," Stewart said, "I gaze at my friends like I wanna jump their bones too, all the time." He took a swig of his Bud.

"You _do_ gaze at each other," Jimmy chimed in.

"A lot," Kennedy added. "It's pretty hot."

"I got a lot of spare bedrooms upstairs, you know," Stewart said, "if you wanna act on all that heat tonight."

"It really isn't like that," Deacon protested, but he was pretty sure none of them believed him.

"She's nice, real nice, I like her. Didn't think you had such good taste in girls, Deac."

Deacon laughed, unable to deny that was the truth, and scrunched up his face. Things had changed in the past two months. _Everything_ had changed. He shrugged. "Rayna's different."

Stewart sat forward on the couch and looked at him squarely, seeming to realise this was bigger than just having a thing for some girl. "Jesus Christ, Claybourne, have you caught yourself some feelings?"

"Oh, he's got himself some feelings alright," Vince said. "Some _big_ ones."

"I knew it," Jimmy bellowed, and there was a murmur around the couch.

Stewart slapped his thigh, and then slapped Deacon's. "I never thought I'd see the fuckin' day."

"Hey, I got a heart, you know."

"Sure you do, I just always thought it was in your pants."

Deacon feigned offense but he couldn't pull it off, and Stewart got him in a headlock and ruffled his hair affectionately, spilling a little of Rayna's punch on his leg. He felt it bloom out across the denim of his jeans, cool and sticky.

Vince, knee-deep in a bag of chips that smelled like tacos, got up and wedged himself in on Deacon's other side. "You gotta make your move tonight, buddy. Ain't nothin' stoppin' you now - Samantha's old news, Rayna's lookin' at you like you're the Goddamn sun - you gotta kiss her. Tonight."

Stewart spat a bit of his beer out and held up a hand. "Hold on a minute there - you ain't even kissed her? A hot chick like that and you ain't so much as kissed her? What kind of parallel universe are we in here - Deacon Claybourne, the ladies' man we all aspire to be, gone soft?"

"You've ruined your rep, Deac," Kennedy told him. "I thought you were a God of women up until this very moment. You're PG-13 in my eyes now."

"Guys are such jerks," Jenny, who knew them all well, said, rolling her eyes. "Deacon is the only one of you who deserves a girl as sweet as Rayna." She looked at Jimmy pointedly. 'The rest of y'all are so _not_ gettin' laid anytime soon."

Stewart threw up his hands, his point made. "What did I tell ya? Girls just _love_ Deac. It's those puppy dog eyes - look at 'em in action."

"You're all assholes," Deacon laughed, finger-combing his hair back into place and shoving Stewart, who was balanced on the side of the couch on one butt cheek and toppled off right as Rayna walked back in the room.

"Y'all okay?" she asked when they fell quiet, and they all nodded earnestly.

"We're gonna go, ah, get some air," Stewart said. "Leave you two to… enjoy the party."

They got up and shuffled out of the room, winking at Deacon as they went, and left them alone except for a handful of people sitting around on chairs and loitering around the doorway, wrapped up in their own conversations.

"I'm sorry about them," Deacon chuckled, handing her back her cup.

"What was that all about?"

"My friends are asses." He didn't mean it, of course, and she knew.

"I kinda like 'em," she said all the same, and settled back down on the couch next to him. "It's a fun party - _definitely_ an improvement on the Country Club. Thank you for invitin' me."

Deacon watched her take a sip of punch and pull a face at the sweetness of it. "It wouldn't be fun without you," he said quietly.

He couldn't have said when it happened, the buzz from the drinks softening his sense of time, but he found that his head was resting on the back of the couch and so was hers, and they'd shifted their bodies towards each other, faces close together. They talked for a long time, hands in the little bit of space between them, their fingers twining and untwining, so far past the line that had said they were just friends that there was no question of going back.

Deacon's stomach was filled with warmth, the most incredible feeling. His eyes dropped to her lips; he watched them form a soft smile and then he was leaning in, closing the little space there was between them-

"Oh shit," somebody said, and Deacon looked up in a daze to see Kennedy, a little wobbly on his feet, picking up a cap from the floor next to the couch. "I'm real sorry y'all, carry on."

"Jesus Ken," Vince hollered through the doorway, and he strode into the room and herded him out, lifting a hand and making a _continue_ motion. "Don't mind us, just pretend we were never here."

They disappeared and Deacon looked at Rayna, who seemed serious for a split second and then erupted in laughter. He joined in, feeling lightheaded, and dropped his head back onto the couch. So close. They'd been so engrossed in each other they hadn't realised the commotion going on down the hallway, a drinking game clearly underway, and the moment was gone, swept away in a sea of chants and cheers, drunken friends and lost hats.

"Wanna get out of here?" Deacon asked, and Rayna got to her feet in answer.

/

The parking lot was deserted, Deacon's truck its only occupant. It was close to midnight, the crickets loud and the heat sweaty and sweet. He rolled the windows down and they sat with the radio on low, no other place either of them wanted to be.

"You think Kennedy's hat's gonna make it home tonight?" Rayna asked, and Deacon snickered.

"I don't think it will have even made it to the kitchen."

She murmured, leaning back and looking out through the windscreen. "It's so pretty out tonight."

It was: the sky was clear, stars brilliant white, and a lazy breeze toyed with the tops of the trees. Deacon looked at her, her face full of wonder, and sighed.

He hadn't quite realised he'd done it out loud until she turned to look at him curiously, and that was it, he couldn't help himself a minute longer.

He reached out and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She leaned into his hand, her lips parting, and he dropped his face towards her until he could feel her breath fluttering against his skin. It felt like slow motion when he brushed his lips against hers, so gently it almost tickled, and he pulled back and paused only for a second, his hand sliding down to cup her face; he could feel her pulse jumping under his palm, or maybe it was his, and he caught her lips again.

A jolt ran through him at the feel of it, and he could tell she felt it too; she made a tiny whimpering sound in the back of her throat and Deacon was a goner. He eased her mouth open and she dug her fingers into his arm, and their bodies shifted closer, his other hand snaking around her waist to pull her into him. He slipped his tongue into her mouth and she looped her arms around his neck, flush against him, and Deacon Claybourne knew this was the single best moment of his fucking life.

The clattering of gravel and voices broke them apart eventually, and they sat with their heads together, still clinging to each other, for the few moments it took them to catch their breath and realise there _was_ another car in the lot after all. A group of partygoers had spilled out of Stewart's house and were heading towards it, and a couple of them waved over in their direction.

Rayna giggled headily, her cheeks flushed, and Deacon grinned at her, happy as shit. It was late, the night more than he could ever have imagined, and she licked her lips as they tore themselves away from each other.

"Let's get you home," he said, and he put the truck into gear as she nodded, holding onto her hand with no intention of letting go.


End file.
